


A Single Silver Thread

by LastAmericanMermaid



Series: Oh, I Know You'll Be Back [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon, Domestic, Feels, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Humor, I AM SORRY, M/M, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Schmoop, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, attack of the 2nd person, brief mention of period-typical homophobia, literally so slow, my attempt at humor, no okay not really, please forgive my timeline, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t have anywhere to go, now. You don’t have any missions, anyone to tell you what to do.</p><p>You decide you would like to try being a person.</p><p>You need someone to help you, though, to fill in all the missing pieces (and there are many, many missing) and give you both the questions and the answers.</p><p>You decide, from your careful dissection of the film loops in the exhibit, that Steve Rogers is the best person for this impossible task.</p><p> </p><p>*The Winter Soldier lets Bucky take the wheel.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into the MCU fandom in terms of fic. I appreciate comments and suggestions, though I would have to ask that everyone be courteous with their criticisms. 
> 
> I actually don't write a lot of fanfic, usually more original works, but Stucky just speaks to me. Ugh. 
> 
> Title taken from the song Cold Creeps by Owl John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he fell from a speeding train, Bucky Barnes was just a boy with a crooked smile and a shameful secret.

It is summer in Brooklyn, and the sidewalk is hot under the thin soles of your cheap shoes.

You are young, with scraped knees and grubby fingernails.

You, for some unknown reason, punch bigger boys in the face and draw blood, in the name of the mousy little thing with soft blonde hair and determined furrow in his pale brow. You offer your hand, help him up.

“I had ‘em on the ropes,” he pipes up, high color in his cheeks, bruises blooming on his frail body like ink spots. You can’t help but goggle for half a second, bite back the insult that’s tripping down your tongue because it’s fairly obvious this kid is just nuts.

Instead, you clap him on his skinny shoulder, tell him “I know ya did, pal.”

He sticks out his chin, squares his shoulders, offers his hand. “Steve Rogers.”

You stare at it, then shake it firmly. “James Barnes, only everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Bucky, huh?” the kid, Steve, looks like he’s mulling it over. He smiles, then, and it’s like staring into the sun.

You don’t understand the overwhelming urge that wells up inside you, the one that tells you to do anything, anything you can to keep that smile on his face.

“Yeah, s’what I said, ain’t it?” you give him a little shove, smile so he knows you’re just messing around.

And that’s it, that’s how it begins.

. . .

You are 13, beginning the first of your growth spurts.

You shoot up nearly four inches in as many months, voice cracking with change.

Steve is 12, and now you tower over him. His little body is weak, and you visit him during those long winter weeks when he has pneumonia or fever and can’t come out to play.

Sometimes, Steve is too sick even to sit up and laugh at your dumb jokes, or to listen to the little radio you nabbed from your stinking drunk father’s dresser. (It’s not like he’ll miss it, you reason to Steve; he’s hardly ever around, and when he is, he _certainly_ ain’t in any shape to work a radio.)

On these days, when Steve’s mother has to pick up extra shifts and can’t be home to give her boy the extra care he needs, on these long days, you sit in vigil at his bedside. You read to him, tell him stories, make sure he gets a few sips of water and broth in him. You realize, one day while Steve sleeps fitfully, forehead beaded with sweat and face fever-flushed, that you are so, so _angry_.

Your hands shake with it, the anger ( _and_ , you realize, fear) at which God or whoever the hell decided that Steve Rogers wasn’t worth the extra time it took to make a person grow up healthy and strong. You think about how Steve can never keep his big trap shut when he sees something he thinks is wrong.

Sometimes, you want to grab him by his bony shoulders and shake him and yell. You want to yell at him to be _careful_ , to be _quiet_ , goddammit. Just one goddamn time.

When Steve’s ma comes back, late at night with tired circles under her weary blue eyes (a weaker, waterier blue than Steve’s own) she thanks you enough times to make you blush with embarrassment, to make you mumble “Aw, stop, it ain’t nothin’ I didn’t wanna do.” She just looks at you, shakes her head and smiles sadly.

“Steve is lucky to have you, James. You’re a good boy.” she tells you.

It isn’t her fault that she doesn’t know. You think of the stolen comic books, the pencils and pads of paper you knick for Steve so he can draw. You think of the noses you've bloodied, the eyes you've blacked. You think of the school days you ditch just so you don’t have to go without him, and you know that she is wrong.

You are not a good boy.

It’s okay, though, because when Steve’s fever breaks the next morning, he is smiling at you like you told him something real special. You are still young yet, so you have no real trouble ignoring the way your entire body relaxes and your heart clenches so sweet in your chest because he’s still alive, still with you.

. . .

You are 16.

You are 16 years old and full of nervous, wild energy like a live-wire.

Your smile is just this side of too crooked, and your shoulders ache with the weight of the chip you carry. You laugh too loud and keep your step loose, slinging an arm around Steve and telling him stories about girls from school to make that fierce blush rise up in his cheeks.

(You already have plenty of stories; there are plenty of girls who don’t mind that your clothes aren’t neat or new, or that you get in almost as many scrapes as that punk Steve Rogers.)

Steve is almost a head shorter than you now, still waiting on a growth spurt the both of you know isn’t coming, but at least his voice dropped and smoothed pretty quick. He hasn’t gotten any better about picking fights he can’t win, but, you figure, that’s what you’re there for.

You will gladly beat down anyone, smash bone against brick, twist an arm until it cracks; you will do it all for him. He is kind. He is fierce and loyal, a wet kitten with a lion’s heart, and his long fingers wrap around a number 2 pencil with an easy, delicate sort of grace.

You could watch him draw forever—that is, if you weren’t so full of that crazy, twitching energy all the time.

One summer night, you steal a bottle of liquor, some hooch your good-for-nothin’ Pop has stashed away, and together you and Steve trade sips on the rooftop, giggling and shoving each other. The moon is huge and full, and the lights of the better parts of the city are twinkling like faulty stars. In the strange silvery light, Steve looks—well, he looks _beautiful_.

And it strikes you, deep and true as a single, pure note sung in an empty church, this knowledge that _Steve_ is _beautiful_.

Skinny little Steve Rogers, who is taking a long pull from the bottle, does not notice that you’re staring. You follow the line of his throat as he swallows, hypnotized and swaying a little because you’re only 16 and you’re drunk.

When he moves to pass you back the bottle, your eyes catch on each others’, and your heart gives a lurch because you’ve been caught out—haven’t you? He blinks once, twice, then ducks his head a little like he’s all of a sudden got shy or something. He looks at you, though, with those eyes of his.

Your mouth goes a little dry. Steve’s eyelashes are long, like a girl’s, and his bottom lip (which is split from a pounding he took just the other day) is full and pink, glistening from where the bottle touched it.

You think wildly, suddenly, that you want to kiss him. The next thought hits you like a wave you weren’t expecting, leaving you staggering with water in your windpipe: he would _let_ you kiss him. You panic, because what the _fuck_ did you expect? _Of course_ you panic.

“Hey Stevie,” you say, fake-bright and smarmy, “I bet I could get Geraldine Bradley to go out with you. She’d prob’ly even jerk you off, if you wanted,” you add, waggling your eyebrows. Steve’s face goes from dreamy to annoyed in zero-point-five, but you can’t help wondering if you imagined the tiny flash of hurt there in-between.

He rolls his eyes, mouth twisting into a frown. “C’mon Buck, leave it alone.” he pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging his spindly arms around them. “No girl’s ever gonna want me like—like _that_. Not so long as I’m like—well,” he gestures wryly at himself “ _this_.”

You are very drunk, and Steve’s looking positively miserable, and you want to punch a brick wall until your knuckles bleed and your skin shreds down to the bone. You want them, those outside of the impenetrable forcefield of yours and Steve’s friendship, to see what you yourself see in Steve. You could rail against the unfairness of it all until your lungs gave out.

You never hit anyone who didn’t deserve it, but your reasons are selfish. Steve throws himself into fights because he won’t back down, like a mouthy David in front of some two-bit back alley Goliath. You can’t stand it, seeing him sitting there on the rooftop, clearly hating himself; it makes you feel like your skin’s on too tight.

So you say, “Heya Stevie,” and he looks at you with the corners of his mouth turned down and you’re desperate so you say, “If I was a dame, I’d be over the moon for ya, hand to god.” And that’s as close as you have ever come to admitting the thing that’s the worst about you.

It isn’t enough.

Steve has that sad, sweet little smile that smashes your heart to little, tiny bits, and he scoots closer so’s he can rest his head on your shoulder.

“Aw, Buck, don’t say junk like that.” he mumbles, curling into your side when you sling an arm around his frail shoulders.

You pretend to think about it, when inside you know that you don’t need to be a dame to be gone on your best pal.

“You’re such a punk, Rogers,” you say, flicking the lobe of his ear with your finger.

He laughs and you laugh and grin and it is almost wonderful, in a bittersweet sort of way.

. . .

You are 22, and you fumble with the key for a minute before pushing through the door.

“When were you gonna tell me, Buck?” Steve is sitting at the table in your tiny, shitty apartment, sitting at your tiny, shitty table in the dark.

You’ve been out drinking, dancing, flirting; there are three different shades of lipstick on your collar, smeared over your jaw.

You turn on the light, which flickers for several moments above you. The letter you received, form stamped 1A, is sitting on the table where you’d carelessly left it before going out. Before Steve came home from his art class.

“Jus’ got it today,” you slur, wanting to close your eyes.

You drank quite a lot, and you made time with more than one dame, but even those things weren’t enough to sweat out the fever you’re running.

 _Still, after all this time,_ you think wondrously. You have not managed to quell the burning in your gut for this scrawny dumbass.

“It isn’t—” Steve begins, stumbling over words in a way he doesn’t normally “—I’m not _mad_ , not at _you_ , just. . . I should be going, too.” he hangs his head a little, and you lean against the kitchen wall because it is your safest bet.

You have learned, over the years, especially since sharing an apartment, that being drunk and being around Steve do not necessarily mix. The alcohol loosens your tongue, makes you needy and desperate. It does not dull the ache; rather, it robs you of control over yourself.

“But they need guys here, too, Stevie.” you force yourself to sound light, gentle; your hands shake so bad from wanting, that you have to ball them into tight fists and press those fists against your thighs.

Steve snorts humorlessly, and you want to shove him up against the peeling wall by his boney shoulders. You want to tell him that he can’t follow you, that he has to stay _safe,_ dammit. You want to tell him that you’re scared shitless, more so of what will happen to him if you leave, of who will be there to take care of him when he’s sick or gets himself into brainless fights.

You are more afraid of losing Steve than you are of losing your own life.

“I’m sick of being the one who’s left behind!” he says angrily, louder than either of you expected.

You are horrified to see tears welling in the corner of Steve’s blue-blue eye.

Your body moves on its own, until you’re yanking him gracelessly out of the chair and into your arms. He resists for half a second, but you keep holding him tight enough to break his ribs, your nose buried in that soft, golden hair.

“ _Jesus_ , Stevie, you think I wanna leave you behind?” the words leave your mouth, ragged and ugly and true, before you can snatch them back.

You squeeze him with everything you’ve got, try to let your arms around him say everything that you can never say. It is several moments before you feel his skinny arms come up around you, and the two of you stay like that, in your shitty kitchen, for what could be hours.

Steve pulls back so he can look at you, and you feel like the scum of the earth because his eyes are red and his nose is pink and he’s been crying over your sorry ass.

(You have been crying, too; you don’t care if he sees the tracks the tears have made on your cheeks or the snot threatening to pour from your nose.)

He looks up at you with those big, ocean-blue eyes, blinking those long lashes at you. It is a moment, you realize, and it is one that will likely never come again. It would be easy to brush your lips across his, to let yourself try, just one time.

But Steve _isn’t_ —Steve _doesn't._ He’s not like that.

You know he wouldn't judge you, wouldn’t be anything but kind, but you can’t handle even the kindest rejection.

“ _Jeez_ , Buck, you smell like a drunk’s dirty underwear.” Steve’s voice is full of sly mirth, and his face is cracking into a grin, the little shit, and just like that, the moment has vanished like smoke between your grasping fingers.

“Takes one to know one, pal.” You grin, shoving his face into your armpit so he yells and slugs you in the gut.

You both sag against the counter laughing.

Later, when you’ve washed yourself as best as can be done with cold sink water, you lie down in the too-small, creaky bed the two of you are long-past too old to share.

You curl your body around Steve’s, protective; this is the way you have always slept, under the guise of sharing heat with him.

Your heart feels so damn heavy, the lump in your throat never really goes away.

. . .

Other guys in the 107th, they get letters from their sweethearts.

You? You never took anyone out more than once or twice; hardly long enough to warrant sappy letters.

Still, you get letters written in Steve’s hastily-scrawled hand, usually with a drawing of something on the back.

(A pencil-sketched stray dog with a soup bone; an old lady who lives in the apartment block you used to live in with Steve; a few cartoons of an overly-mopey Steve missing you and doing things around the apartment.)

You want to keep the only photo you’ve got of Steve—the one where his hair is sticking up everywhere and he’s smiling unabashedly—inside your coat like the other soldiers do with their sweethearts’ pictures.

You want to do this, but you know that all it would take is one person to catch you looking at it, and that would be the end for you.

The army is full of all kinds of men, some good, some rotten; _queer_ ain’t something you want stuck on you for the rest of your lousy time here.

You are tired down deep to your bones, and homesick to the point of physical pain.

When you and your regiment are on leave for a night in Paris, you fuck a girl in a dingy hotel room because her skin is porcelain-pale and flushed, and her figure is more straight lines than curves.

It isn’t great, but at least it’s something.

You scrunch your eyes shut and grunt with the effort of trying to shove thoughts of him out of your mind while you shove in and out of the little blonde thing you’re fucking.

Still, though, when you come, it is not her name that threatens to spill from your lips.

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood.

. . .

_Sergeant James Barnes, 32557_

You are muttering the words, delirious now from the pain and from starvation and dehydration.

You remember that it has been a long time strapped to this cold, metal table.

You remember killing several of HYDRA’s guards in a blind, terror-induced rage, clawing and brutally twisting bones from sockets. All you could think of then, when they’d marched you into the compound at Azzano, was _Steve_.

Steve, who would get a letter in exchange for his best friend, if you didn’t manage to escape somehow.

 _Steve_ , who could get sick without you knowing, could be dying, for all you knew, while you were strapped to some Nazi quack’s operating table and being poked and shocked and who-knows-what.

It has been days at least, since you were brought away from the other prisoners here to the lab, and you have no fight left. The only words you can remember are your name and rank, your number.

The sound of explosives going off is not enough to jar you from your stupor. You can hear men shouting, but you can’t move. You merely repeat, in your ragged, scraping voice, your name and your rank and your number.

You maybe pass out for a little while.

When you come to, there is a man standing above you, hastily loosing the straps binding you to the table, and his eyes are kind and full of a strange mixture of relief and horror.

“Bucky? Buck? _C’mon_ , get up.” his voice is familiar, and your weakened heart stutters faintly at the sound. “It’s _me_ , Steve.”

“ _Steve_. . ?” you repeat, head lolling to one side. You try to keep your eyes open, to see through the fog of exhaustion and whatever cocktail of drugs they’ve pumped you with.

The man is wearing a helmet and a suit like the American flag. His body is broad and strong and sturdy, his jaw heroically square; his eyes are the same as you remember, though. His pretty blue eyes and his stupid, broken nose and big ears.

“What the hell happened to you?” you manage, in case it really is Steve.

“I joined the Army,” the man who could not possibly be Steve says, like he means it to be a joke but somehow misses the mark.

You want to laugh, because you’ve _really_ lost it now. Your brain must be mush inside your skull. But the hands on your shoulders hoisting you to your feet are real, and you lean on this almost-stranger because you still can hardly stand.

Then, there is fire.

There is a bridge.

There is him on one side, across the burning abyss, and you on the other.

You are on the side with the exit to clean air and tomorrow.

He tells you to go, to leave him here to die. The idea is unfathomable. You could never leave him where he isn’t safe.

The horrified rage that fills your body at the thought of doing so is what rips the words from your raw throat, _“Not without you!”_

The man who is and is not your Steve takes a running start, and your heart clenches in your chest. There is a single, awful moment when he is mid-leap, poised above the climbing flames, and then—

—and then, he’s on your side of the collapsed metal bridge, and he’s curling his body around your smaller one like a shield as the two of you walk out, decidedly alive.

. . .

When the base has been reduced to flames and rubble, the men rescued and camp made for the night, you steal glances at this boy—this man—you used to know better than yourself.

It’s still Steve, still dumb, reckless Steve; you should be happy that he’s everything on the outside now that he’s always been on the inside. He won’t be sick anymore. He won’t get beat to a pulp anymore for standing for what’s right.

 _He won’t need me anymore,_ you think bitterly, and feel almost immediately disgusted with yourself.

But really, it’s kind of true, isn’t it? When Steve— _Captain Rogers_ —is in the tent and you are alone together for the first time in months, you surprise both yourself and him by exploding.

“The hell were you thinking, Rogers? Signing up to be a fucking lab-rat, letting them pump you full of God only _knows_ —”

“— _Maybe_ , I was thinking that I didn’t want to be a _burden_ anymore, huh?” he interrupts, looming into your space the way he’s always done when you butted heads in the past.

Only difference is, he’s about a foot taller and a hundred-fifty pounds heavier than he used to be. _Now_ , it’s actually intimidating.

“ _Maybe_ ,” he continues, on a roll now, “I was thinking that I could do something for once, instead of worrying about catching my death from a slight wind, ever think of that?”

You want to shove him, to really lay into this strange, huge new body of his. You wonder what it would feel like, your palms against his broad chest.

Your very next thought, though, is of selfish, ugly, naked relief. Relief that Steve is here with you and that he is alive.

“You’re a fucking punk, Rogers.”

Your face feels twisted up, like you know you’re going to cry, but you’re fighting it.

“S’better than being a dumb jerk,” Steve fires back, a little shakily.

You are both trying, desperately, to bring back some semblance of normalcy to the wedge that distance and changed shoved between the two of you.

You both want it to be how it was, but also not, and even more to the point it can’t be how it was. Not anymore.

You let this new and ‘improved’ Steve dress your more superficial wounds, let him fuss over you a bit, because he’s earned that.

He fucking walked through _fire_ for you, and you are being selfish.

When it is time to bed down for a few hours’ rest, you are at a loss. This new Steve is too big to curl your body around, and ain’t _that_ just the funniest thing—that this is the thing that makes the tears sting your tired eyes, makes your chest heave silently.

This Steve who is not yours (and isn’t it time you admitted that Steve will never be yours, not _really_ , not the way you want) does a strange, sad thing: he lies down beside you, tucks himself against you, his back to your chest. He hunches up as small as he can (which is still fucking huge) and presses against you the way he used to when he was one-third the size he is now. It breaks your bludgeoned heart, but makes your stomach flutter in that old familiar way.

You sling one arm around his bulk, and feel him sigh contentedly.

This _is_ your Steve, after all.

. . .

“ _That_ was one beautiful dame who won’t be giving Sergeant James Barnes the time of day,” you drawl, all easy humor and crooked grin.

You are trying to be the same as you have always been, but lately, it comes with an edge.

Every joke you make comes out a little bit wrong, a little too sharp. Too many teeth.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice or care tonight, though; he’s too busy make moony eyes at the retreating figure of the commanding woman with the dark hair, she of the clever eyes and devastating red dress.

Agent Peggy Carter is her name, but you are pretending not to know that. When she’d approached you and Steve in the pub, you knew she was coming for him and not for you. You could see it in her eye a mile away. You knew it because you recognized it from your own experience.

So, being you, you had to try to sleaze your way into some convoluted attempt at flirtation.

You were flailing; a drowning man’s final attempt at signaling rescue. You wanted Steve all to yourself, but you knew, you know that you could never hope to compete.

She’s perfect for your Stevie, because she’s strong and fearless, yes, but also because she saw him before he became this shining specimen of physical perfection.

(Yes, you miss his scrawny limbs and the notches in his spine. That doesn’t mean you’re blind to what’s in front of your face. . .)

Now, at the pub, after Agent Carter has slinked away in her impossible red dress, Steve is looking at you like he’s fighting a losing battle against the dopey grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. You try not to think about his mouth.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Steve says, eyes crinkling at the corners same as they always have “I never really did.”

You want to slug him in the arm and roll your eyes and say _‘yeah, sure thing, pal’_ but the words aren’t there, the emotion too prickly.

Steve is looking at you, presumably waiting for your retort or your laughter or some other shit. You, for the first time in your whole life, want to hide your face from him. You are afraid that if he stares too long, he will see it written across your forehead in glaring red ink.

You down the rest of your scotch, relishing the way it burns all the way down into your gullet.

Slam it down on the bar and hop off the stool to your feet, summon up your best rakish grin.

“‘Scuse me while I try and find a shoulder to cry on, if you get my drift.” you waggle your eyebrows at him, jerking your head in the direction of the curvaceous barmaid. Steve, he shakes his head, laughing.

“You’re a real punk, you know that?” the expression on his big, dumb mug is soft and fond, though, and you want to scream.

“Just ‘cause you’re a captain now don’t make _me_ the punk in this friendship, Rogers.” you knock him in the shoulder with yours, and he doesn’t budge an inch. He ducks his head, grinning. You think about shoving him up against the wall and kissing that stupid, sweet grin off of his stupid, sweet face. You think about how you are disgusting, which helps a little.

“Yeah, Buck, you’re right,” Steve says, a cheeky glint in his eye “It makes you _subordinate_ to a punk.”

That startles a laugh so true and real from you that you have to walk away.

You have to walk away, or the two of you would stand there all night, Steve unwittingly shooting little arrows into the tender lump of your heart over and over and over.

You have to walk away because you can’t stand that sappy look on his face, not when you know it isn’t for you.

(You aren’t overly concerned anymore with what exactly that means for your soul.)

. . .

There is a fast train, and there is snow and a feeling of nervous dread in the pit of your stomach.

You would follow Steve anywhere, so you follow him onto (and into) the train.

There is a split-second where your feet are swept from under you and you are hanging on to the warped metal that once was the door to the train car.

Steve reaches for you (he will always reach for you, same as you would for him) but even with his new long, powerful arms, he can’t quite bridge the gap.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because it all happens so fast.

There is a shout, and the groaning screech of metal.

There is stinging, icy wind.

There is falling, scream ripped from your throat and muffled by the rushing wind in your ears.

You think:   _Who will look after Stevie when I’m gone?_

You think:   _Maybe now I’ll get some peace._

You think:   _I should have tried, just once._

Then, there is darkness.

 

END PART I. 


	2. Part I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope anyone who reads it is liking it. Feel free to comment or message me or whatever. Enjoy the sadness!

They have to sedate you.

Each time you come out of the drug-induced stupor, you thrash and bite, though your bones are broken and your body is all used up.

When they come with the high-whining little saw, when they take its whirring blade to the flesh of your left shoulder where your arm begins, you scream.

You don’t scream for your mother or your sisters or even for Jesus.

You scream for Steve, over and over, until they knock you out again.

His name is the first word on your lips when you come to.

Then comes the chair.

. . .

You wake up in a bright room surrounded by unfamiliar faces.

There are wires connected to you, and the weapon they attached where your arm used to be is laying open, circuits and mechanisms exposed.

A man works diligently with tiny instruments, tightening and soldering.

You feel little jolts along your fried nerve endings.

They train you.

They punish you.

They take away everything that you were and give you nothing in return but a foreign language and an infinite number of ways to kill.

The first mission they give you is to kill a man in front of his wife and child.

You complete it with precision and a total lack of hesitation. The man’s brains paint the wall behind him, and his wife screams.

You kill her, too.

When you return to your handlers, you ask them why the man called Steve was not also included on this op.

They strap you back into the chair and crank the voltage up even higher.

. . .

You no longer remember your own name, or the life you had ( _did you have one?_ ) before you became the Soldier.

Sometimes, when you are out of the cryostasis chamber for too long, things come back, bright flashes that stop you and leave you breathless.

Once, when the weather is warm and you are lying on the roof of a tall building with your eye to your rifle scope, you remember pink cheeks and breathless laughter.

You remember cheap, strong liquor and the overwhelming ache in your chest that goes hand-in-hand with looking at the boy across from you. You think—you remember him, or rather, bits and pieces of him. You remember the freckle on his cheek, and the way his hair never laid flat. You remember the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

You are so overwhelmed by the strength and clarity of this memory, you miss your target window.

You fail to complete the mission, and so, they tell you, you must take your punishment.

Since you know it is coming anyway, you dig deep into your mind and pull up the words.

“Where is Steve?”

They don’t take you out again for fifteen years.

. . .

There is a girl, with red hair and small, quick hands. Her eyes are dead like yours.

 _Natalia_ , you call her.

 _Yasha_ , she calls you.

She brings something out in you that has laid dormant beneath layers of conditioning and torture for a very long time.

You train her to kill efficiently, to lie without detection, to be whatever she must be to survive.

She is young, very young. You feel the need rise in you to protect her, to keep her safe.

You don’t know where this fierce desire comes from, only that once it comes it does not go.

You have the vague sensation of familiarity, like you once felt this protective of someone else, a long time ago.

You keep the girl called Natalia safe, you let her touch you with her small, quick hands. You share her bed when the two of you share missions, and in her body you try to find what is missing. Each time, you feel both more and less human in equal measure.

Each time, you are quietly frustrated for reasons you cannot conceive of.

You lie, restless, and watch the girl called Natalia in a rare moment of peace. She is beautiful, the contours of her face somehow sweetened by sleep.

You don’t love her, because that is outside the realm of possibility. You frown. You don’t love her because you _can’t_ —but also, also because there was somebody else you loved, _before_. Someone you loved but couldn’t.

When you try to escape from your handlers with her, the two of you don’t even make it out of Russia.

They stick you back in the cryostasis chamber.

You don’t get to say goodbye to Natalia.

You think the twinge in your chest is the closest you have ever felt to regret.

. . .

You are no longer the Soviets’ weapon.

You answer to an American now, a man with an easy, stoic kind of grace who seems like he could be someone’s kind grandfather. Or the president.

He is neither of these things, and you are nothing more than the Asset to him.

You are a gun to be fired in the direction of any threat HYDRA deems dangerous.

Your life is a series of disoriented awakenings, mission briefings, ops, mission reports, and then sleep again.

You hardly get punished anymore; you don’t know anything about yourself except that you know how to kill and you know how to obey.

Then, they give you a new mission.

They send you to kill Fury, Nicholas J., and you do.

You are chased by a man whose face you do not know. You go back to your handlers and are given another new mission. You are to kill the man they call Captain America.

When you fight this man, he is fast and strong. He won’t give up, and you are irritated—no one escapes.

The two of you fight dirty and hard in the middle of a highway bridge. You—you make a mistake, somehow, and he catches you across the face with enough power that it shatters your mask. It falls to the ground with a hollow clatter, and you glare at the man, ready to end this now.

His face makes you angry, mostly because he is staring at you in earnest disbelief, the way people only stare at other humans.

You yourself are not a person, you _know_ this.

When he says, “Bucky?” with a voice that matches his irritating face, your chest spasms painfully. You want to snap his neck and bash his skull against the pavement over and over.

“Who the hell’s Bucky?” you reply.

Something about that word, that name, it crawls up under your skin and writhes like an insect.

The fight resumes, and still the man called Captain America escapes with his life.

You replay his voice over and over, trying to extract some meaning, decipher some hidden message held in that single, silly word. His face, with its square jaw and furrowed brow, nags at you. You recall having seen his eyes somewhere before, and you frown with the effort of trying to remember.

Somewhere in what is left of your wasted mind, you register the man’s face and his voice and the stupid, meaningless word he spoke.

When you are back in the chair, the man called Pierce with the grandfatherly, relaxed smile is there. You know they are going to wipe you again, but the image of the man has been bothering you, so you speak without thinking.

“The man on the bridge . . . who was he?”

The handlers exchange worried looks, and Pierce fixes you with his calm gaze.

“You met him on another mission, don’t you remember?”

You want to accept this is the truth, because you are not allowed _not_ to. Something inside of you keeps itching, though, so you try again.

Your own voice sounds strange to your ears.

“But I knew him,” you say, more sure of this than anything ever before.

Pierce’s expression never wavers. He looks at you like he is sad for you, the way the president would be sad.

“That’s not important. You only met once,” his voice is calm and gentle, just enough gravel at the edges.

You close your eyes, look away. You chew your lip and frown.

“But . . . I _knew_ him,” you repeat, still trying to place the man on the bridge in your nonexistent memories.

Pierce sighs, lets his shoulders slump a little, like he’s genuinely sorry about what comes out of his mouth next.

What comes out of his mouth next is, “Wipe him. Start over.”

They shove the rubber guard into your mouth and strap you down.

It still hurts as much as the first time.

. . .

You have failed your mission.

You are trapped under a fallen support beam on a doomed helicarrier, and you have _failed_.

The punishment for failure will be severe.

You thrash and struggle like an animal in a trap, helpless under the weight of the steel. The man in the suit with the star on his chest appears again, though you have tried to kill him several times already, and he lifts the beam up just enough to free you.

The star on his chest bothers you, because it is like the red star on the Weapon, but somehow not the same at all.

The man called Captain America is not trying anymore, and he allows you to lay into him with all of your rage.

“Why won’t you fight back?!” you shout, landing a blow to his jaw that should crack it but doesn’t.

The man falls to his knees, removes his helmet. His eyes are still brilliantly blue, and his face makes you feel confused and sad and you hate that, you don’t know what to do with that.

“You’re—” he grits out, breathless “You're my  _friend_ , Buck.”

You punch him again and again, bloodying his face.

“You’re my _mission_ ,” you tell him, and your voice contains a trace of emotion you are not capable of feeling.

The man in the suit with the star on his chest lets his shield fall away and out of the helicarrier.

He places his hands on his head. He is on his knees at your feet and somehow you know that this is wrong. He is not supposed to surrender. He is never, ever supposed to give up.

You don’t know how you know this, only that you do.

“Then finish it, Buck.” He stares you dead in the eye, jaw clenching and mouth grim “’Cause I’m with you to--the end of the line.”

You shoot him in the stomach, in the chest.

You watch as he plummets, unconscious, down, down, down.

Your mind is swirling and you feel like your head might explode, and he hits the water and you fling yourself out of the aircraft in a knife-sharp dive.

. . .

You pull his lifeless body from the river, lay him down more gently than you have ever done anything. He coughs up water, but otherwise does not move. You go back for the shield because, inexplicably, you know that he needs it.

. . .

There is no handler at your extraction point.

No one comes for you.

You wander around in alleys and stick to the shadows, unsure what to do with yourself.

You watch the many people pass you on the street and wonder what it would feel like to be so naïve, so helpless.

You imagine killing them. You settle for stealing their wallets.

. . .

You go to the museum, and there is an exhibit with the man Steve Rogers’ face everywhere.

You stop in front of a display featuring prominently the name that does not belong to you along with a grainy black-and-white photo of the man whose face you wear.

 **SERGEANT JAMES BUCHANAN “BUCKY” BARNES**  
**1916-1944**

You read about him because ‘Bucky’ is what Steve Rogers called you.

You feel sad for him because the person he is seeing in your face is a ghost.

There is no Barnes, James Buchanan anymore. Or. Not much of him, anyway. Not enough to count.

You watch a loop of film where the man with your face and the man called Steve Rogers are smiling and laughing. You see the way James Barnes lets his gaze linger on Steve Rogers’ face a half-moment too long.

This calms you in a small way, because it explains why maybe you failed your mission.

Maybe they couldn’t eviscerate all traces of the man Steve Rogers from your memory, regardless of how many times they wiped you.

It helps, the knowing that this failure is not from any weakness on your part. You are the Soldier. You are not Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

You tug the dirty baseball cap down lower over your eyes, fiddle with the edge of the glove concealing the Weapon where it sticks out of your sleeve.

You catalogue all the exits in this room of this building. It helps to ease the wild panic coursing through you. You aren’t James Barnes, you have not been him for longer than you can remember.

You stare at the pictures of the man Steve Rogers from before he became larger than life. He would barely have come up to your chin, and he was skinny as though he’d been starved. The look in his eye is the same, though.

You realize that you recognize the look, not only from when he allowed you to break him, but from some time before the Soldier.

You don’t have anywhere to go, now.

You don’t have any missions, anyone to tell you what to do.

You decide you would like to try being a person.

You need someone to help you, though, to fill in all the missing pieces (and there are many, many missing) and give you both the questions and the answers.

You decide, from your careful dissection of the film loops in the exhibit, that Steve Rogers is the best person for this impossible task.

 

 

END PART II. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will get less sad I promise. 
> 
> Okay no it won't. 
> 
> Eventually!


	3. PART III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Barnes hides out on the roof of Steve's apartment building because he loves him, obviously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where you'll start seeing more interaction with other characters, like Sam and Nat (yay!) and obviously Steve. The chapters after this will be more 'everyone gets to know Bucky/Bucky gets to know himself/oh god there are so many great fics like this why did I think I could write one?' type stuff. Y'know.
> 
> ALSO: This chapter might have some triggery stuff, nothing serious, just brief mentions of past torture and a part where Bucky accidentally hurts someone. If that's upsetting to you, just skip the part when Bucky is having a nightmare and go to the next section.

It isn’t hard to find where the man called Steve Rogers lives; you feel a stab of annoyance at how careless he is with his life.

_Anyone_ could find him here in this brownstone, could kill him.

For a few days, you loiter around, watch a dark-skinned man leave for several hours and then come back with brown paper bags or cardboard boxes or sometimes nothing at all. The man is the same one who wore the wings, the one you shot out of the sky.

You want to tell him to make sure Steve is eating enough, and then immediately wonder where _that_ thought came from.

You steal clean clothes every couple of days, but the filth and grime on your body doesn’t take long in dirtying them up.

You eat food that people throw away, sometimes completely uneaten. You _think_ —you aren’t _sure_ —you _think_ you remember a time when food was scarce and precious and throwing any of it away would be unthinkable.

Another memory comes without warning while you are curled up on the roof of the building in which Steve Rogers lives:  you are young and Steve Rogers is skinny and sunburnt on his nose, and you are sharing an apple on the roof.

You shake your head a little, as though it will make the aftershocks of the memory fade.

You remember warm sun and the tart crispness of the apple, you remember the way Steve sounded when he laughed.

The next day, you break into the apartment and leave a bag of large, perfect apples on the kitchen counter.

You hope he will understand.

. . .

“So, when are you gonna let Captain Oblivious in on it?”

The voice startles you, and you dig your nails viciously into the meat of your palm for letting someone catch you off guard.

You are on the roof, roosting in the little nest you have made for yourself.

You like knowing that any threat to Steve Rogers would not make it past the front steps. You would not let them.

The man with the mechanical wings is standing with his arms folded, looking both wary and amused. You can’t even begin to form any kind of response, so you just stare silently.

“Look, I _know_ you’ve been camped out here for at least a month. _And_ that you keep leaving fruit, but,” he raises his hands “ _That_ is a whole other thing.”

You continue to glare at him, wondering if he isn’t a little stupid. He knows who you are. _What_ you are.

“He misses you,” the man says, fixing you with a look that hits you with a memory of your mother.

You shake it off, because you can’t _begin_ to do  _that_  now.

“He just moves around in a constant state of sad, man.” The man without wings continues, side-eying you a bit. “It’s kind of really depressing.”

You don’t know what to do with this new information, but you know that the thought of Steve being sad makes you hurt a little. It’s an acute pain, a sharpness just behind your ribs.

“He needs to.” Your voice is like rusty machinery being turned on after a lifetime of neglect.

You clear your throat repeatedly, but that doesn’t help much. “Steve. He—make sure he. Eats it. The fruit, I mean.”

You breathe heavily when you finish speaking, completely drained. You look at the man expectantly.

The man’s eyebrows are raised very high, and he shakes his head a little.

“How did this become my life?” he says, though you think he is talking to himself. “Okay, tell you what:  _I’ll_ make sure your boy eats the fruit. _You_ . . . you think about telling him you’re here.”

You glance away nervously. You want to bolt, but you force yourself to stay still.

“Can I tell him you’re the one who brought it?”

You start to shake your head _‘no’_ , but find that you really want to say _‘yes_ ’. You nod once. You can’t stand the idea that Steve Rogers is sad.

“Good.” The man nods too, like this is a completely normal exchange. Who knows? Certainly not you. Maybe this _is_ a completely normal exchange.

“I’m Sam, by the way.” The man offers before descending the staircase that leads down from the rooftop. “You can’t stay up here forever,” he adds, then disappears.

The thought of talking to Steve makes your heart race and your hands shake with overwhelming anxiety and fear.

You don’t _get_ to talk to him, not after everything you’ve done.

(You’re starting to remember more, and you get the idea that James Barnes wasn’t a very good person.)

Steve is a shining figure in the precious few memories you have that _don’t_ have to do with killing.

In each one, he blazes brighter than the sun.

You aren’t ready to face him, and you are so ashamed.

. . .

One day, Steve Rogers returns with the man called Sam to the brownstone wearing the suit with the star on his chest, and he looks as though he has been badly beaten.

The suit is torn in places, and his gold hair is matted with dirt and what looks like blood.

There are cuts and bruises on his face, and he is limping a little. He leans on Sam, who looks only slightly in better shape.

Your heart nearly stops, and you feel panic rise up. You watch Steve and Sam enter the apartment, and your body starts to move without thought. You climb down the fire escape and kick in the window that you know looks into the unit belonging to Sam and Steve. Your feet hit the floor just as the key turns in the door, and then you are standing there, less than fifteen feet away from Steve.

“Um, okay,” Sam says slowly, like he isn’t sure what to do.

Steve, though, Steve looks at you with unadulterated hope in his eyes. He takes a step towards where you stand, and you don’t move, even though you want to.

“Bucky . . ?” he says softly, disbelievingly. You realize that he has taken several more steps in your direction.

His hands are shaking.

You take in his battered, ragged appearance. You breathe in, then out.

_“Steve,_ ” you say, but it comes out like _please_.

You don’t have time to think any further, though, because Steve is staggering into your space and pulling you to him and your mind just goes blank.

You can’t remember the last time you were touched without pain.

You hear the man called Sam in the background make what sounds like a distressed squawk, but you don’t _care_. You are trying to catalogue every minute detail of this, of Steve’s arms around you.

He holds you tightly, but doesn’t trap you. He lets you bury your dirty, smudged face against his shoulder.

Slowly, and with great effort, your hands rise from their place of limpness at your sides to come up around the broad expanse of his back. Steve makes a tiny, hurt noise at this, but before you can pull away he just holds you tighter.

“Okay, you know what? I’m just gonna . . .” but you don’t hear the rest of what Sam says because you are listening to the sound of Steve’s shaky breathing and taking in the smell of him and trying to burn the feeling of his bulk around you into your memory forever.

“You . . . you’re _hurt_.” you say accusingly, when Steve has finally pulled back. He looks away guiltily.

“‘M _fine_ , Buck. It’s nothing serious.”

You frown, make a little growling noise in the back of your throat without meaning to. You huff in frustration.

“You should be more careful,” you tell him, and he smiles at you and looks like he might cry.

. . .

The bathroom is a new experience.

You agree to clean yourself because you hope it will make Steve stop _looking_ at you with that _look_ on his face.

You agree with Sam, it _is_ really depressing.

You don’t want to make Steve any sadder, so you ask him if you can wash yourself.

He, of course, falls all over himself to explain about the different things to use and how to turn the tap on and off. He seems like he is trying very hard not to overwhelm you, but also like he himself is overwhelmed by your presence.

You feel a stab of guilt because you know Steve is hoping you will turn out to be _his_ Bucky, and because you know you _aren’t_ him.

You think that you would like to try.

And trying means you will have to rid yourself of a solid month’s worth of filth.

Steve runs the bath for you, filling it up with water that gives off steam that smells pleasantly floral. You start to undress, removing your shoes and the hoodie that is now more black than grey. When you start to undo the fly of your pants, Steve makes a strangled kind of yelp.

You stop and look at him for further clarification. Steve hands you some towels and looks uncomfortable.

You wonder if maybe the old you didn’t do things like this. Maybe the old you and Steve didn’t take your clothes off in front of each other.

Still, you find the thought of being alone in the bath to be too upsetting, so you glance nervously at Steve.

“Can you . . . will you help?” you try out your voice some more, and it comes out just a little less scratchy and horrible than before.

Steve’s eyes widen, but he nods.

“Of—of _course_ , Buck. I’m right here.” He pointedly averts his gaze while you strip all the way, and doesn’t look at you again until you’re submerged in the warm water.

You don’t realize it, but you actually _groan_ at the feeling of being completely enveloped in this—this _warmth_. You have been cold for a very long time. This is too good for you.

After several moments, Steve clears his throat and kneels beside the tub, small towel in hand.

“Here,” he says, offering it to you. “Use this to, uh, clean yourself. The green bottle is for your skin, and the silver one is for your hair.” he points to each bottle in turn.

You scrub yourself with a little bit of soap on the rag, watching as your pink skin is revealed and the water turns steadily murkier. By the time your whole body is clean, the bathwater is almost completely black.

“Oh, jeez—that’s—we’re gonna have to drain that and refill, is that okay?” Steve asks you like it is easy for you to have choices. You stare at him and something in your face must tell him this, because he reaches down past you to pull the plug from the tub.

Then, he hands you one of the fluffy white towels. You aren’t quite sure what to do with it, so you sling it over your shoulders when you stand. Steve barks out a nervous laugh before taking the towel from you.

“Just— _here_ —let me,” He wraps the towel around your hips and tucks the edge under itself so the towel will stay in place.

You sit down on the lid of the toilet while the water finishes draining, dregs of sediment and dirt left behind in its wake. Steve is on his knees, scrubbing at the dirt from your body that is now staining the porcelain of his bathtub as though it never occurred to him to do anything else.

You wonder what was so special about Bucky Barnes that would make Steve Rogers get on his knees.

When the tub is full again (the water is still warm, and you actually crack the tiniest smile when you discover this fact) you sit back down and let Steve carefully shampoo the snarls and matted clumps that pass for your hair. It takes nearly an hour, and a lot of what Steve calls ‘conditioner’, but he goes very slowly and is so gentle with the comb, and you close your eyes and allow your body to unclench.

When your hair is clean and you are once again swaddled in several towels, dripping water onto the tile floor, Steve asks you if there is anything you need. You don’t know how to answer that, so you don’t.

“Are you hungry? You’ve gotta be hungry—” he cuts himself off, frowns a little. “When’s the last time you slept in a bed?”

And the look on his face when you tell him that you don’t know makes you hate yourself even more.

. . .

Steve gives you a pair of soft pants and an even softer shirt that you know belong to him.

He shows you how to brush your teeth (you have the vague sense that the old you would have found his attempts at instruction wildly hilarious) and asks you if you want to shave. (No.)

He is trying so hard not to look at the Weapon, but every so often, you’ll catch him glancing at it with a pained expression on his face.

The man called Sam is gone, probably to the Tower, Steve tells you. He explains that the Tower belongs to a friend of his, a rich man, and then he goes off on a tangent about the man’s father, whom you both apparently knew. He stops himself when he sees your blank expression, though, apologizing sheepishly.

“Are you hungry?” he asks you again, his face a masterpiece rendition of both sad and earnest. He reminds you of an eager dog, and the thought almost makes you laugh. You don’t remember the last time you ate, but you know it has been more than 48 hours.

You have survived on less for more time, but you don’t want to disappoint Steve. You don’t want to see him trying to hide his pain for you. You nod at him.

“Food,” you agree, then add “please.”

Steve smiles at you, and it nearly knocks the wind out of you for how bright and happy he looks. Your heart squeezes because _you_ did that, _you_ put that brilliant, beaming smile on Steve’s face.

You follow him into the kitchen (and note that the broken glass from the window you broke has been swept away) and sit down at the table while he rattles off all kinds of options that you could never hope to identify or choose between. It makes your head hurt, but you don’t want to tell Steve, because he might get sad again.

You wait until he gives a few more choices and then interrupt him.

“That,” you say after one choice he lists. “Please,” you say.

Steve takes to preparing whatever it was you agreed to eat like a man on a mission. You watch him take eggs and milk and butter from the fridge. He takes a large bowl out from a cabinet under the sink, and a few utensils from a drawer. He gets a yellow box from the cupboard, and turns to look at you from over his shoulder.

“Do you want something to drink while you wait?”

You suppose that would keep you occupied, so you nod.

“Milk?” he asks. Your entire body tenses at that, and you have to will yourself not to vomit or hit him or bolt.

Steve sees the panic and fear in your eyes, and holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“ _Whoa_ , hey! It’s okay, Buck. No milk, got it.” He opens the refrigerator again and from inside grabs a plastic bottle of water. He walks over to where you are sitting, hands the bottle to you. “It’s a twist-off cap, you just—” he mimes a little twisting motion with his thumb and finger.

You try to copy him and find that the cap easily comes off.

You bring the bottle to your lips and take an experimental sip. You do not suppress the groan that accompanies the feeling of cold, clean water running down your throat.

You drink the water in long, dreamy gulps, guzzling it all down in about a minute. Steve is staring at you when you lower the empty bottle, eyebrows raised high.

There is a beat, then he grabs you another bottle and hands it over.

You gladly drain this one, too, and are ridiculously relieved that you did not have to ask.

. . .

The plate Steve puts in front of you is stacked high with—no, you _know_ this word—pancakes.

You think you may have had them before, but you can’t remember and you are too distracted by how good they smell.

Steve gives you a bottle of syrup and a fork and knife, and you want to knock him upside the head because _really?_ You just came back today and he’s giving you _knives?_

You hesitate for a moment, staring at the food before you. You look up at Steve, who is still wearing his combat suit and covered in dust and dried blood.

“Go ahead, Buck, eat as much as you want.” He urges gently, and gestures at the pan on the stove. “I can always make more if you’re still hungry.”

You have no idea what to make of that, so you cut yourself one tentative bite of pancake, bring it to your lips.

“It’s kinda hard to eat with you starin’ at me, Rogers.” the words come out absentmindedly and with a cadence and accent you don’t really remember having, and they shock both you and Steve pretty thoroughly. For a second, you wonder if you should apologize. You don’t want to be rude, not to Steve.

Steve cracks a watery kind of grin, though, and your heart stutters weakly in your chest.

“Missed you, Buck.” he says softly, eyes fond and sad.

You don’t want to say it back, mostly because it wouldn’t really be the truth. Still, you want to give him something.

“I—me, too.” you tell him, and find that you mean it, utterly.

The smile he gives you in return is so warm and so bright and so real that you want to wrap yourself in it.

You scarf down the pancakes in a series of hasty bites, a little lightheaded from how good they taste and how strange it feels to chew food that is still warm and has been made especially for you. Steve pretends he is not watching you.

“You’re dirty,” you remind him, casting a sideways glance at his torn suit.

He glances down at himself like he actually forgot, makes a little noise of surprise. His cheeks color, tips of his ears going red, and you drag the last bite of pancake through the puddled syrup on the plate with your fork. You have to look away from him.

“I’m gonna—I’ll just,” he falters, torn between leaving you on your own and wanting to clean himself up.

“It’s okay,” you assure him, though you’re not keen to be without him, either. “I’ll still be here.”

His shoulders visibly sag with relief, and he nods.

“It’ll just be a little while, you can feel free to look around, lay down on the sofa, whatever you want.”

And then he is gone.

You finish your pancakes and rinse your plate and utensils in the sink. You dry them with a dish towel and put them back where you saw Steve take them from.

You are very tired.

You check the exits, make sure the windows are shut and locked. You hear the sound of water running, of Steve’s off-key singing above the noise of the shower.

You feel like you might remember that, from before.

In another room, the room next to the kitchen, is a big, soft-looking couch and a wide television with a flat screen. You haven’t watched television in a long time, and don’t think now is the time to start.

You hesitate before sitting down on the couch, but as soon as you sink into the plush cushions, your body relaxes immediately. You can’t remember ever sitting on something this soft.

You faintly recall scratchy cushions with springs that would poke you if you sat wrong. You make a mental note to ask Steve if that’s right.

You know that Steve said he wouldn’t be long in the bathroom, so you decide to wait for him. Your eyelids are heavy, though, and your body starts to slip into sleep without warning. Your breathing evens out, and you curl up on your side, pillowing your head on the cushioned armrest. The clothes you are wearing smell like Steve, and Steve is synonymous with ‘safe’.

You think you have always known this, maybe.

. . .

You awaken to the sounds of a doorknob turning, your eyes snapping open, instantly alert.

“Okay, all finished,” Steve calls from down the hall, and you relax a little. It was just Steve. There is no threat.

You are in Steve’s apartment.

When he comes into the room where you are, he takes in the sight of you sitting on the couch and his eyes get soft again.

You suspect this is going to be something of a problem.

It makes you feel _bad_ when you see this look on his face, because you aren’t who he’s looking at, not really.

You clear your throat. “Did we—I remember. . . did we have a sofa? Before?” you look at him from behind the curtain of your hair, still half-convinced that you’ll be hit for asking questions.

Steve does not hit you. He looks happy, but like he’s trying to hold it in.

“ _Yeah_ , Buck, we did. What did you remember about it?”

You chew on the cuticle around your flesh thumb, look away.

“It was—this one is a lot better,” you manage, catching his eye before letting your gaze skitter away again.

Steve laughs, and the sound makes you feel warm all over.

“That’s definitely our couch you remember, then.” he goes from amused to fussing over you in half a second. “Are you cold? Did you need anything more to eat? Is there anything I could . . ?”

You stare at him. He seems to realize that he is overwhelming you with all these different choices, and looks a little sheepish.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s . . . that’s okay.” you reply.

“I’m just nervous, Buck, you gotta understand that.” his voice is quiet, and his brow furrowed.

Of course. He is afraid of you, of the Weapon.

“Because of what I did to you,” you intone flatly.

Steve waves his hands in front of him, looks genuinely upset.

“What? _No!_ Of course not, not that. _Never_ that.” he looks like he is trying so _hard_ not to move closer toward you. You don’t know whether you want him to do just that or to get as far away from you as possible.

“I’m nervous because I want to _help_ you, but I don’t want to muck it up.” Steve confesses, scrubbing a large hand over his face. Then, more softly, he adds “I don’t want you to leave me again, Buck.”

You have no idea how to respond to that, your only cues being the ones triggered somewhere in your brain by the memory of impulse laid deep below the scarred surface. What did he—you— _he_ do when Steve got sad or scared? What would the Bucky from before have done?

You decide to be honest, because your honesty is all you’ve got. (Well, that, and the Weapon surgically fused to your body.)

You look at Steve, look him in the eyes though everything in you screams no.

You want him to see that you are telling the truth when you say

“Where else would I go?”

. . .

Steve can tell that you’re tired, and when your head starts nodding down towards your chest, he declares that it is time for bed.

He leads you like a child down the hall and in through a door on the left side.

“This is my room, but, uh, you should take the bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He is giving the slight impression that he is uncomfortable, like before when you were naked. It takes a moment, but you recognize the expression on his face as mild embarrassment.

“Can I,” you start and then stop. You turn to face Steve. “You’d let me sleep here?”

Steve looks at you and nods _‘yes’_ with such earnest, such feeling made plain on his face. You want to tell him to _stop that_ , it’ll get him into trouble.

You fold back one corner of the covers, survey the large, fat pillows and run your real hand along the fabric that makes up the sheets. Steve stands there and watches you expectantly. There is no light coming from behind the curtains, so you think it must be night.

Gingerly, you climb onto the bed, get under the blankets. You have not slept in a bed in longer than you can remember. The mattress is firm but luxurious, the pillow under your head like some kind of cloud. Steve does an awkward sort of sidestep towards the door, and you surprise yourself by reaching out suddenly.

“Wait,” you say. He does.

“Stay?” you ask, voice small. You don’t know why you ask this of him, only that the thought of being alone in the dark of this strange room without Steve is unbearable.

Steve does not hesitate, does not ask you why or tell you no.

He climbs into bed with you, this bed where you could stretch out fully and still never make contact with him. You feel instantly more calm, now that he is here and you are sure he isn’t going to leave.

“‘Night, Buck.” Steve says quietly, turning over so his back is to you.

You don’t reply.

You ponder the fact that he is trusting ( _foolish_ ) enough to sleep with his back to you, to be so sure you won’t harm him.

You fall asleep before working it out.

. . .

_It’s cold, and there are bright lights in your face._

_A small, piggish man with little round glasses is leering down at you._

_You turn your head to the left and see that your arm is completely gone, a mess of torn ligaments and severed nerves dangling out of the socket—_ A hand touches your back, snapping you out of your nightmare.

You don’t even think, flipping the threat over and squeezing when your fingers find throat.

“ _Bucky, wait—_ ” It takes you a moment to become aware that it is _Steve_ who is beneath you, hardly struggling.

You pull your hand away as though it has been burnt, flinging yourself off of the bed and backing yourself into the corner.

“Bucky! _Bucky!_ It’s—I’m _okay_ , you didn’t hurt me.” Steve has turned on the little lamp on the bedside table, and you can see angry red bruises in the shape of your hands on his neck.

You are equal parts rage and shame.

“Don’t _lie_ to me!” you shout, hot tears stinging your eyes. You didn’t mean to hurt Steve, you never want to hurt him again. You feel sick.

Steve moves like he wants to come closer, but you growl at him to stay away. He puts his hands up in front of him, high enough so you can see, and comes slowly nearer to the corner you are backed into.

“Bucky, _please,_ ” he whispers. “ _Please_ come back to bed. You were having a nightmare, I shouldn’t have—just, _please_.”

In the end, you go to him, crawl back under the covers that are too warm and smell too nice.

You burrow into his chest, inhaling the scent of his clean shirt and just _him_.

He seems stunned, but recovers quickly, hugging you close with one strong arm.

“Is this—is this okay, Buck?” he whispers gently. You burrow deeper into him, seeking his warmth and the safety of his presence.

“ _Steve,_ ” you mumble into his shirt, clutching at it with your real hand. The movement of his chest and the sound of his breathing soothe you, and the feeling of his arm around you helps banish your terror.

You don’t want him to go away, ever. You think that the old you probably felt the same.

Soon, you are falling back asleep.

. . .

The three months you spend in Steve and Sam’s apartment go okay; there are good things and bad things.

(Steve shows you the inside of the refrigerator and tells you you can help yourself, anytime you’re hungry. Your eyes are comically wide when you see how much food it is packed with.)

(The sound of Sam’s electric shaver terrifies you, sends you into a flashback. You break a lamp and don't come out of Steve’s room again for the rest of that day.)

(Steve gives you more clothes, and they are new and comfortable and clean. You like them, but you still manage to end up in his shirts.)

(Television is overwhelming, and you definitely don’t like reality shows about hospital emergencies, but cartoons are easy, and you don’t feel as crazy when you’re mindlessly watching them.)

(Steve tries to show you how to use his computer, but you give him your flattest stare until he relents and lets you go back to the stack of books Sam brought back for you.)

(Sam is . . . a good man. You are glad that he was with Steve while you couldn’t be, and you like the sound of his voice. He doesn’t treat you like a broken thing, not even when you are triggered by something on the television and almost break his arm.)

(You sleep in Steve’s bed every night, and when you have a nightmare, he soothes you and brings you back, traces patterns with his fingertips on the skin of your back, runs his fingers through your hair.)

(You remember that you used to love to dance. Steve’s face when you mention this is so overjoyed, you actually _blush_ and look away.)

(You remember that Steve used to get sick, and that you used to read to him. You are slowly getting used to the big, bright grin on Steve’s face whenever you remember something from before.)

(You remember killing lots of people, even a president once. You remember a lot of things, and sometimes it is too much and you have to stay in bed all day.)

(Sam helps you talk about these things, and you are embarrassingly grateful, because you don’t want to tell Steve. Sam tells you that Steve knows, but doesn’t care. You are horrified.)

(You read about things that have happened since you fell from that speeding train in the Alps all that time ago. You are actually shocked when you find out there has been a Catholic president. Steve and Sam laugh at the expression on your face.)

(You are relearning how to be a person, slowly but surely. Sometimes, your voice will slip into an accent you don’t realize, and you’ll say things that make Steve blink in surprise. You yourself also blink in surprise.)

(You eat lots of different kinds of food, and find that you like most of it. You ask Steve if he can show you how to cook anything, and Sam laughs so hard, he almost falls off the couch. Steve looks wounded and grumbles something about _growing up in the Depression_ and _not having the luxury_. Sam laughs harder, then wipes the corners of his eyes and offers to show you a few things.)

(One day, with Sam’s help, you cook dinner for Steve. The affectionate look he gives you is so overwhelming that you blush and look away.)

(You ask Steve to help you shave, and with a fancy-looking straight razor and a tube of thick cream that smells like mint, he does. You close your eyes and grip the edges of the toilet seat, but Steve goes slowly and doesn’t nick you even once, and when he pats you dry with a towel you feel, to your surprise, better. You look in the mirror and see James Barnes staring back at you, a little shadowy under the eyes, but present and accounted for. Steve looks like there’s something he wants to say, but doesn’t say it.)

(You watch lots of movies, ask Steve and Sam lots of questions. “ _That’s_ what a bathing suit looks like now? Are you _shittin’_ me?” “So, these are what pass for vampires? _Christ,_ Stevie, turn it _off_.” “I liked the one with frog and New Orleans better, the music was better.” Sam and Steve argue over who gets to choose what to show you. You snatch the list out from under their noses and tell them you’ll decide.)

(You still have really, really bad days. Like when you wake up and you are more the Soldier than James Barnes.)

(You also have really, really good days. Like when you try ice cream cake for the first time.)

(Steve has to leave sometimes, and when he comes back all beat up, you have to fight the urge to scold him and fuss over him like a mother hen. Eventually, one day, you stop fighting it and swoop in, shooing Sam out of the way and taking inventory of all the scratches and bruises on Steve’s person. Steve is so dumbfounded, that he lets you lead him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub and dab at the little cuts with alcohol-soaked cotton pads. You make little _tsk_ ing noises and frown, telling him that he needs to be more careful, asking him when he’ll ever learn. When you’re finished, Steve is staring at you with a curious light in his eyes. _“What.”_ you ask him grumpily. He just shakes his head and keeps staring until you roll your eyes and tell him to take a goddamn shower because he _stinks_.)

(Talking gets easier. You can speak in whole sentences, now. Paragraphs, even. You give your opinion when asked, sometimes of your own volition. You tell Steve that his shirt is on inside-out just to watch him turn red and scramble to fix it. And, well, because it _is_ on inside-out, obviously.)

(One day, a woman shows up at the apartment whose face you remember. She is small, and beautiful. Her hair is dark red and pulled back in a ponytail. She is looking for Steve, who flounders gracelessly for some excuse as to why he hasn’t told her about you, but she merely quirks a perfect eyebrow and snorts, amused.)

(The woman’s name is Natasha now, and she makes Steve go away so she can talk to you for awhile. The conversation ends with you crying and her making soft, soothing noises while combing her nimble fingers through your hair. It is not, as things go, a bad day.)

(The next time you see Natasha, she tells Steve that it is time. Steve starts to protest, but you don’t let him. “I’m ready,” you say. You let them take you to the man called Director Coulson.)

 

 

END PART III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly sure how many more parts to this there will be, but I definitely have at least two more already written and ready to be edited and posted.


	4. PART IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is figuring out more about who he is, who he was, and who he wants to be. 
> 
> The rest of the Avengers are happy to bring him into the fold. 
> 
> Steve is barely even trying to conceal his inner-mother hen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter has some serious hand-waving stuff going on. Namely, the way I have totally nixed most of the events of Age of Ultron, because of, uh, reasons. 
> 
> Also, sorry for all the many, many tropes particular to this fandom. I hope I did them justice. 
> 
> Enjoy!

They ask you a lot of questions.

Steve wants to be with you for every part of the debriefing process, but you shake your head and try to look like Bucky would have looked. You crack a wry grin, shrug your shoulders.

“I gotta face the music sometime, pal.” you just want Steve to smile again.“Maybe afterwards, we can watch some more of those movies on your list.”

Steve finally relents, but something tells you he won’t be far away. Steve is stubborn like that, loyal. Even to you. _Especially_ to you.

They want to have a team of scientists take samples of your DNA, but you become agitated and upset, so they back off. A short man with a goatee, darting eyes, and dark hair comes in and asks for a look at the Weapon.

He talks very fast, and you get the feeling there are a lot of snarky jibes hidden in the barrage of words he throws at you.

He tells you his name is Tony Stark. You tell him you killed his parents, because in that moment, you remember.

He frowns, swallows, waves a hand dismissively. “Wasn’t you,” he seems adamant, like this is the last you two will speak of it.

You don’t want anyone touching the Weapon, but, you feel you owe it to Howard’s son, and to his memory.

. . .

You don’t much care for many of the agents you meet at SHIELD.

Some of them are just snot-nosed kids to you. Others stare and whisper when you are led through the facilities.

Steve comes to visit you every day. He brings you ice cream sometimes, and cookies from the bakery down the street from his apartment. He complains about how long everything is taking, how he just wants to take you home. You try to ignore the way your entire body warms at that word, _home_.

You don’t tell him that _home_ isn’t that apartment. Home is wherever _Steve_ is. You don’t tell him that you’ve been sleeping like shit without him, even though the bed they gave you here is just as nice.

You _do_ tell him how stupid the look on Director Coulson’s face was when he first interviewed you one-on-one. You and Steve exchange a look when you tell him how Coulson asked for you to sign his trading cards.

“He asked me the same thing, right after he told me he watched me sleeping,” Steve says with a wince, barely holding back his laughter. His eyes are crinkling at the edges, though, and the corners of his mouth curling up. You feel your own wide grin and don’t try to suppress it.

“ _Wow_ , Stevie, does he collect strands of your hair, too?”

Steve sputters inelegantly, and you let the laughter that’s been bubbling in your chest ring out, filling the little apartment they’re keeping you in. Steve tries, feebly, to assert that Phil Coulson is just a big fan of the comics, but soon he’s cackling too.

It’s the most you’ve laughed since you’ve been back, and you kick Steve’s foot under the table just because.

You don’t have to wonder if it’s what _Bucky_ would do, because for the first time in forever, you _are_ Bucky.

. . .

You meet the rest of Steve’s team.

Dr. Banner ( _“Call me Bruce, please."_ ) is soft-spoken and tired-eyed. He offers to show you techniques to relax when you’re feeling overwhelmed or afraid. You do deep breathing with him and find that it actually does help. You like him.

Tony is an ass, always ready with a smirk and a smart remark, especially where Steve is concerned. He’s designing you a new arm, so they can remove the Weapon, but you still don’t like him much. Maybe it’s because of how he treats Steve, maybe it’s because he’s rich. You never did like rich kids much. Maybe it’s really because you still feel guilty about Howard. His—well, _whatever_ she is—Pepper Potts, now _there_ is a stand-up gal who gets things done. Steve tells you that everyone on the team is at least a little in love with Pepper.

Natasha is your favorite, probably tied with Sam. She doesn’t treat you like you’re made of glass. She does, however, keep trying to get you into increasingly more fashionable clothes. ( _“If you’d just—come_ back _here! Men wear ponytails now, it’s a thing!”_ ) She asks you to spar with her, and after several grumpy refusals, you relent. You are surprised at how swift, how _powerful_ she is. You are more surprised to find that sparring helps, too.

Thor, who shows up later than the rest, kind of blows your mind. He is larger than life, with a booming voice and a huge, unabashed smile. He claps you on the shoulder with his massive hand and tells you with utter sincerity that he is honored to meet you. He calls you “Friend Barnes” and says that any shield-brother of Steven Rogers is an ally of his. He wishes you courage on the rest of your journey.

Not ten minutes later, he is regaling you and Steve with the tale of how his girlfriend _ran him over with her car_ when they first met. He tells it with a hearty laugh that echoes down the halls, slapping his knee as though it is the most hilariously romantic way to meet a dame. You _really_ like Thor.

Clint Barton, the guy with the bow and arrows, has a dry sense of humor. He doesn’t trust anyone, and he can move _almost_ as quietly as you can. For a while, he seems to keep his distance from you, until one day you find him in the common space with a pack of cards, shuffling them as artfully as a dealer in vegas. You ask him if he knows any good games, and then end up playing rummy for two hours. When you beat him for the fourth time, he merely sighs and points at his last hand and says “Aw, cards, no.” Clint is okay, too.

Lastly, the whole building is overseen by some kind of A.I. that Stark invented. It’s called JARVIS, and the whole concept of it makes your head hurt. You just accept that there is disembodied British voice who will provide you with endless information. It’s not the strangest thing that’s ever happened to you.

Obviously, though it doesn’t need to be said, your _real_ favorite is and always _was_ and always _will_ be Steve.

He doesn’t even pretend like he’s not living in the facility too, now, and he must have had a stern talk (probably using his patented ‘ _Captain America is disappointed in you_ ’ face) with Coulson, because he is allowed to move into your apartments.

When he forgoes his own bed to climb into yours, you point out drily that there are probably cameras everywhere.

Steve merely yawns and tells you to hush because he’s tryin’ to get some shut-eye.

You can’t argue with that, so you don’t. You don’t even bother pretending, the next morning, like it wasn’t the best sleep you’ve had in a month.

. . .

You are moved from the SHIELD facility to Tony Stark’s tower, where you find out that Steve (and the rest of the Avengers, and pretty much anyone Tony Stark has ever met once and not hated) has his own personal floor.

“A _floor_ , Rogers. A _whole floor_ , and you neglected to mention this to me? You n’ me, pal, we’re through.” you cross your arms over your chest and give Steve your best betrayed look.

Steve ducks his head and looks away, mumbling something about not wanting to overwhelm you before.

“Aww, that’s real sweet, Stevie,” and Bucky—the old Bucky’s—Brooklyn drawl has been coming back to you, stronger and stronger as the months pass. “Tryin’ to keep me all to yourself?”

Steve turns a truly magical shade of red, and you grin and ignore the way your stomach flips at the sight of that blush.

You realize how _lucky_ you are, to have done everything that you’ve done and _still_ get to have Steve Rogers on your side. Of _course_ you do, you’ve never been stupid. And, you tell yourself firmly, it doesn’t _matter_ if you were in love with him before. It doesn’t _matter_ how you feel about him now.

If the _old_ Bucky, the weak, selfish kid you were before, if _he_ could handle pining after Steve, well. So can you.

You’re stronger than that Bucky, anyway.

. . .

“You need new clothes,” Natasha remarks idly one day when the two of you are sprawled out on the couches in the common space.

You frown. “Why?”

She fixes you with a look.

“Because, you need clothes to wear that Rogers didn’t pick out.” She narrows her eyes “For you _or_ himself.”

Looking guiltily down at the sweatshirt that is blatantly Steve's, you know better than to argue, and that’s how, the next afternoon, you find yourself up to your ears in boxes embossed with names you’ve never heard of.

Natasha sidles in looking like a cat with cream, holding a mug of tea in one hand and leaning against the door frame.

“What the hell, Tasha,” you growl, though the effect is slightly ruined by the way you trip over a stack of boxes that apparently contain shoes.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” she sips at her tea “Tony’s the one footing the bill.”

You open your mouth to complain, but she cuts you off.

“I may have had some input regarding the selections.”

“ _Ugh_.”

. . .

Natasha makes you try on _every single item_ , murmuring appreciatively when you come out in a pair of snug-fitting black jeans, clapping her little hands excitedly when you try on a leather jacket that probably cost more than a whole year’s rent in 1939.

It’s strange, having all these—these _things_ just _given_ to you. You still haven’t come to grips with the idea of endless wealth.

It’s nice, though, too. You even let Natasha tie your hair back into a loose bun and find that when you look in the mirror, you actually feel good about what you see reflected back.

“He looks good, doesn’t he?”

You turn around to see who Natasha is talking to, and are unprepared to see that it is Steve.

Steve, who is looking at you with a curious kind of light in his eye, cracks a tiny smile. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, he does.”

You are so flustered, you push past them both in a hurry, practically hurling yourself bodily into the elevator. You jam your finger on the button that closes the doors.

 _“Going up, Sergeant Barnes?”_ Tony’s A.I. is aware that when things become too much for you, sometimes you like to go all the way to the top of the tower. It helps, being so far away from all the people, all the things.

“Yeah, thanks, JARVIS.”

 _“My pleasure, sir.”_ You take several deep breaths and close your eyes. When the doors open, you step out onto the roof and feel yourself relax.

You try not to think about Steve’s face, or about his words.

You’re getting better, now. You can feel it every day. If there’s one thing you’ve learned from your therapist, from all the hours you’ve spent with Sam and Natasha and Clint and Bruce and even Tony, if you’ve learned _one thing_ , it’s this: You’ll drive yourself crazy with the _what-if_ s.

. . .

The Avengers are gone for a few days in a faraway country called Sarkovia, and they come back with something that belongs on Thor’s world.

There is a lot of fast, excited technobabble from Tony on the subject of _harnessing power_ and _protecting the world_ , but just when you can see tensions start to rise, Pepper steps out of the elevator and glides over to Tony. Everyone else goes completely silent.

She assesses him coolly, one thin brow arched.

“Tony,” she says disapprovingly, and he looks suitably abashed, almost like a child.

“But,” he tries.

“— _Tony_.” Pepper’s tone contains a warning. Tony looks away, then nods reluctantly.

“Come on, honey.” she tugs on his arm, and he goes willingly. Pepper stops to call over her shoulder to the rest of the Avengers. “Oh _,_ and I spoke with Phil Coulson; debriefing in the morning. Lovely to see you all,”

The two of them disappear into the elevator, and the rest of the Avengers stare dumbly at each other.

You’d laugh, if you didn’t feel like somehow all of them just narrowly avoided being hit by a semi.

Sam and Steve are both shaking their heads, Natasha is wearing a tiny smirk, and Clint appears to have fallen asleep standing up. Bruce looks incredibly relieved.

Thor cuts through the silence with a sweeping declaration regarding how great an honor it is to fight alongside everyone, and how they have his word that the scepter will be returned to safety in Asgard. He then proclaims that popcorn will be made and a movie imbibed.

(You’ve been around Thor enough times to know what he’s talking about.)

Everyone agrees, but they also agree that they should shower first, so everyone scatters to their respective floors before regrouping.

When you and Steve are alone on the floor you share, you nudge him with your shoulder.

“Hey,” you say.

“Mm?”

“That—back there, with the magic thingy—that coulda been real bad, couldn’t it?” you ask quietly.

Steve sighs heavily, runs a hand over his face. He looks tired, so dead on his feet that you almost want to tell him to skip movie night with the others.

You _want_ to, but you don’t.

“. . . Yeah, Buck.” he says after awhile “Yeah, it really could have.”

. . .

Steve takes his shower, and you change out of your day clothes and into your pajamas ( _so what_ if your pajamas include a ratty shirt featuring the design from Steve’s shield on the front) and the two of you head back down to the common area.

The movie has already been decided on ( _Wreck-It Ralph_ ), and the buttery warm smell of popcorn wafts through the room.

Everyone is already in their spots: Thor is sprawled lazily in the huge recliner, passing the enormous bowl of popcorn to Bruce who’s nestled in a beanbag chair; Clint is passed out with his head on Natasha’s lap on the love-seat, and Sam is at the far end of the big sofa, his his feet up on the coffee table.

“About time,” Natasha teases. “Now, sit down and shut up, I actually haven’t seen this one yet.”

Steve vaults himself over the back of the sofa and pops the recliner with a little flourish.

Sam groans. “Aw, come _on_ , man.” he rolls his eyes. “Goddamn showoff,”

You sit down next to Steve and immediately curl up against his side. He wraps his arm around your shoulders to tug you down into a more comfortable position.

(At first, you were leery about letting the others see this physical closeness with Steve. You learned, though, that nobody got the wrong idea, or even cared whether or not you like for Steve to hold you when you sit together. Clint had taken a picture once with his phone one time you and Steve fell asleep, but you couldn’t even be _that_ annoyed; it was a really cute picture.)

The movie starts, and you’re only half-paying attention; the smell of freshly-showered Steve is distracting, especially since he’s been gone for the last few days. You can’t help the way your stomach churns when he’s away on missions, the way you get terrified that he might not come back. He’s here and he’s safe, and he’s watching the movie and periodically turning to ask Sam or Natasha questions about it, and your heart swells almost painfully.

Then, about halfway through the movie, Natasha pipes up with “Anybody else think that if Felix and Calhoun had a kid, it would be Steve?”

Everyone cracks up, even Clint who is half-conscious, and Steve splutters indignantly, trying to deny any such thing.

“It’s not a _bad_ thing,” Sam chokes out through his laughter.

Steve hides his face in your hair, even though you’re chortling too.

“I hate you all,” he sniffs dramatically.

You can feel that he’s smiling, though.

. . .

“Well, if it isn’t ‘From Russia With Love’.” Stark doesn’t even glance up from whatever complicated-looking thing he’s doing to a mess of circuits and wiring. “To what do I owe the pleasure, comrade?”

You are used to Tony’s special brand of banter. His attempts at needling you barely even register anymore.

“You haven’t been on my case in awhile, about a look at the—at my arm.” you are trying not to think of it as ‘the Weapon’ anymore, a task easier said than done.

Stark looks up, and there are smudges of soot and grease on his tired face.

“Whoa, seriously? Is this a prank, am I being punk’d? You’ll have to pardon my flailing, Barnes, I just honestly never thought this day would come.”

You make a big show of rolling your eyes, partly to hide the way you’re actually a little scared.

“Yeah, well, I just thought it could use a tune-up,” you very pointedly look everywhere but Stark.

“It hurts you, doesn’t it?” Stark asks, and you can practically hear the gears in his head turning at full speed. “The arm, I mean.” he adds.

You haven’t said as much to Steve, but Stark is right. The scar-tissue where the metal was grafted to your body, it aches terribly some days. It chafes the way a normal prosthetic might, except you can’t take it off for relief.

Meeting Stark’s eyes, you nod slowly.

“Uh-huh, yeah, knew it.” Stark pulls several work screens from thin air (and you will _never_ get used to that) and points at what looks to be a three-dimensional virtual model of a cybernetic arm. “Well, what do you think?”

You make a face.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at, pal.”

Stark exhales loudly, the way he always does when someone has the audacity not to be as smart as he himself is.

“It’s a prototype I’ve been working on. For you. Specifically. Biometrically matriculated and all that jazz. I had Bruce help me out.”

Stark is looking at you expectantly, gauging your reaction.

You realize that you are embarrassingly, horribly touched by the idea of Tony Stark trying to make a new arm for you. Especially when the one you have now is the reason he grew up without parents.

You stare at the floor. The toes of your boots are kind of scuffed, maybe you should polish them or something—

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Stark fiddles with his fancy computers some more, adjusting the specs on the virtual model. “You can stop looking all constipated at the thought of having to thank me.”

“ _Gee_ , thanks.” You sit down at the workbench across from Stark, though, slinging your metal arm up onto the well-worn surface. Stark’s eyes widen like a kid on Christmas, and you start to think maybe this was a bad idea.

“ _Ah-ah_ , no take-backs,” Stark points a finger at you when he catches your expression. Then to JARVIS, he gives a directive. “J? Run scans on Sergeant Barnes’ arm. We’re gonna have to take this baby apart to get ‘er off.”

You close your eyes and count to ten, then you practice some of the techniques your therapist taught you for when you’re in stressful situations. It helps, but you wish you’d just sucked it up and asked Steve to come with you.

When the scans are finished, Stark starts fiddling with the shifting plates on the arm, poking around with a tool until—“There we go!”—he somehow manages to disable the pressure sensations completely.

You take your phone out of your pocket and noodle around for a little while, playing some of the games the others helped you download. You send Natasha a picture of Tony engrossed in his meticulous prodding of the wires inside the arm with the caption _What have I done?_

You think about texting Steve, but decide not to.

Stark’s little helper-robot-thing Dum-E comes wheeling over with a can of soda for you, making little encouraging chirping sounds until you crack it open and drink some. It’s overly sweet, and too fizzy, like all soda is these days. Still, you’re not one to let things go to waste, even if the taste makes you grimace with each sip.

Time passes, and boredom turns into mind-numbing boredom. You’re spacing out, not really focusing on any particular thought, listening passively to the sounds of Tony’s equipment and his measured breathing. All of a sudden, whatever he’s touched gives off some kind of signal that travels through the circuits and into your shoulder where the metal gives way to flesh.

Your whole body sort of goes rigid, teeth grinding, and spasms run through the muscles of your left side.

Tony notices and hastily puts aside his tools, concern etched across his face.

“Hey, Barnes, you okay?”

You try to speak, but all that comes out of your mouth is a low keen. Your head feels fuzzy and sharp all at once, and your vision starts to blur at the edges.

“ _Barnes_ , buddy, you with me? JARVIS, I need you to get Bruce down here, _ASAP_.” He is moving in quick, jerking sequences. It occurs to you that Tony Stark is probably scared.

“ _Steve,_ ” is all you manage to say before blacking out completely.

. . .

You open your eyes slowly, blinking rapidly at the bright white lights blazing overhead.

For a second, you completely panic.

 _They found me,_ you think wildly. _They’re going to wipe me again_.

A heart rate monitor somewhere in the room is beeping uncontrollably, and you feel a large, cool hand against your forehead when you start to thrash in the hospital bed.

Hospital bed.

You’re in the medical station of Tony Stark’s ridiculous eyesore of a skyscraper.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. It is 2015.

The hand on your forehead is Steve’s.

He is peering down at you with worry all over his face, eyebrows knit with concern. You blink several more times, letting everything come into focus.

You note that there is an IV pumping fluid into your flesh arm, and a pleasant breeze blowing in through an open window.

“Steve,” you rasp, licking your dry lips. Like a mindreader, he reaches for a cup of ice chips that’s resting on a nearby end table. When he presses a single chip against your mouth, you are grateful. He feeds them to you, one by one, until there is only a little water left in the clear plastic cup.

“What—what happened?” you ask, trying to sit up properly. Steve frowns a little and leans over to fluff up your pillows.

You resist the urge to snap at him to quit fussing. Your head feels stuffed full of cotton, and you realize they must have sedated you.

“Tony was working on your arm, do you remember that part?” Steve speaks slowly, like he’s afraid to just spit it out.

“Yeah. It was fine, til it wasn’t anymore.” you joke weakly. “Stevie, what happened?”

He looks so strange sitting in that tiny chair, you think. Hunching those broad shoulders so that he can sit at your bedside.

“Something, uh, triggered a secondary defense measure embedded in the arm. Tony said it looked really old, it probably was installed by the Russians. . .”

“Did I hurt anybody?” your stomach churns at the thought.

Steve widens his eyes in earnest.

“No, nobody. I promise,” he adds quickly. “And Tony was able to dismantle the mechanism and sweep the rest of the arm. All clean.”

“He did this while I was knocked out? Is—is my arm safe now?”

You realize you don’t feel that heavy ache in your left shoulder anymore, but chalk it up to the painkillers you must be pumped full of.

“Well, actually—” Steve looks away, vaguely guilty.

Tony Stark breezes in looking smugger than usual and carrying a large mug of coffee.

“— _Actually_ , what our ill-equipped SnoCap is trying to say is, I’m a genius once again. Check it out.” He peels back the covers over your left arm, and you think you must be dreaming this.

The angry red scar tissue has already begun to fade, the new arm attached almost seamlessly. You lift it up and find that it has better control, even with all the drugs you’re on.

“Vibranium,” Stark answers the question that’s still half-formed on your tongue. “And before you ask, Cap, _yes_ , it was obtained legally. This baby makes the old one look like something out of the middle ages.”

You would have to agree. The new arm, like the old one, is metal, though that’s where the similarities end.

It has a bluish cast, and the plates shift almost imperceptibly when you run the fingers from your right hand along the bicep. You get goosebumps and your eyes grow huge when you realize you can _feel_ it.

This new arm is sensitive, almost as much as your flesh-and-blood one; without thinking, you reach for Steve. He takes your hand in his, and you can feel how _warm_ he is and the rough pads of his fingertips and the way he gives your palm a little squeeze.

“It’s wired to your nerves,” explains Tony, clearly excited to talk shop “Bruce did that part, more his wheelhouse, but the rest of it was all me.”

He paces around the room, gesturing animatedly as he explains all the new features and special functions he’s programmed your new arm with.

“There’s a repulsor in the palm, kind of like the Iron Man suit, along with a whole shitload of other gadgets we’ll have to test out on the training floor.”

Steve hasn’t let go of your hand, and you almost wish that he would. It’s too hard, being so close and having him touch you with such tenderness.

Your head is spinning right now, overwhelmed by Tony’s generosity, upset that you blacked out, in love with Steve and hating yourself for it.

“I—this is—thanks, Tony.” you say thickly, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

Stark looks faintly uncomfortable. He shrugs, looks around the room. “It’s nothing, really. _Really_ , really nothing. Oh, wow, is that the time?” he glances at his phone with feigned surprise. “I’ve gotta dash, Pep needs my help with, uh, groceries.”

Steve gives Tony a fond smile over his shoulder. When Tony’s gone, Steve turns back to you and fixes you with those stupidly blue eyes.

“Tony’s, um, bad at that kind of stuff,” he offers.

“Naw, y’think?” you still can’t get over the way your new fingertips pick up all the little textures of Steve’s hand.

You wonder what it would feel like to touch his cheek, his hair. Before that train of thought can go any further, though, you let out a huge yawn.

“You should get some more rest, Buck. I’ll leave you to it, come back later on, okay?”

You want him to stay. You don’t want to ask him. Usually, he can tell.

Maybe Steve has better things to do than sit here and hold your hand while you convalesce, you realize with an internal wince. You don’t want to keep him from other things, even if you kind of do.

So, you crack a small smile and make a big show of rolling over in the admittedly comfortable bed.

“Aw, go on, scram, Rogers. But bring me some food when you come back, okay?”

Steve rolls his eyes and huffs out a laugh, face all fond exasperation.

“You know I will, jerk.”

You roll over and try to sleep, but you can’t stop thinking about the way his hand felt.

 

 

END PART IV. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the next chapter will be back to angsty sadness and a little bit of triggery stuff. Hope you enjoyed the angsty fluff.


	5. PART V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve continue to dance the tango of obliviousness. 
> 
> New faces appear. 
> 
> (an interlude of sorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is short, but I just wanted to get it posted. I'll be posting again tonight or tomorrow, though, and it should be longer. 
> 
> Thank you to those of you who have bookmarked it and left kudos ^_^

How do you begin to describe Darcy Lewis?

You meet her when Jane Foster, Thor’s insanely brilliant lady-friend, is doing some research on a project and needs to use some of Tony’s equipment.

Jane is petite and fresh-faced, though she has the slightly insane twinkle in her eye of someone who sleeps very little, and she fits in well with everyone.

Darcy, Jane’s intern, is petite and fresh-faced— _and_ foulmouthed and red-lipped and always blurting out whatever pops into her head.

She’s a knockout, it must be acknowledged, the kind of dame who’d have had men lining up for just one turn around the dance floor back in your day. You can appreciate a beautiful woman with a mouth like a sailor, that much hasn’t changed in all this time, but she’s just kind of a lot to handle for you at this point.

You barely understand half the references Tony makes, so Darcy is practically speaking another language when she chatters on about who-knows-what.

She hangs around in the common space a lot, mostly to avoid doing any actual work, and you find yourself alone with her more often than not. At first she just sneaks wide-eyed, curious looks at you when she’s not tapping away at the screen of her phone. Then, she must decide that something about you screams _‘talk to me’_ because oh, boy, does she talk.

You can hardly get a word in edgewise, which is fine—you have no idea what you’d even say. You get the vague feeling that she’s flirting with you, just from the way she twirls her hair and rolls her eyes, but you’re at a loss for what to do. The concept of flirting is something the old Bucky did as easy as breathing. The now-you, though? Not so much.

Maybe it’s because you know that you don’t have to maintain some kind of cover for your true leanings, or maybe you’ve just had the knack zapped out of you.

Either way, Darcy Lewis is relentless.

She starts asking you all kinds of questions which range from the innocuous: “What’s your favorite band?” to the totally inappropriate: “So, I can keep a secret; what’s the deal with Cap’s virginity?”

(That question so thoroughly knocks you for a loop that you make a speedy exit, unable to stop wondering about the current status of Steve’s sexual experience. You hide for the rest of that day.)

Steve comes home one evening to find you pacing the floor like a caged animal. When he asks you what’s wrong, you throw your hands up in the air.

“It’s that Lewis kid, Jane’s intern. Stevie, I think she’s trying to make time with me.” you try to convey your horror with your eyes and your voice.

Steve frowns, which isn’t the response you were expecting. He seems, suddenly, very interested in the details of his fingernails.

“She’s a solid ten, Buck. And really fun.” he chews his lip thoughtfully, but still doesn’t look at you. “Maybe you could use a little, um, fun. . ?”

Steve is looking extremely uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere else talking about anything other than this. You wonder if it could possibly ever have been this awkward between the two of you back in the old days.

The thing is, you know that you’d have been all over Darcy in a heartbeat. The old you would have, at least. Now, the thought terrifies you.

How would you even begin to show someone a good time anymore?

You realize that you aren’t sure whether or not she knows who you actually are. Everyone at SHIELD knows, though it hasn’t been made public. You hope it never gets made public.

“I don’t,” you start to say that you don’t want to have fun with anyone in _that way_ who isn’t Steve, but quickly backtrack. “I don’t think I’m interested in anything like that.”

Steve meets your eyes finally, and he looks surprised and— _relieved?_

“You want me to have a word with her about it? If she’s making you uncomfortable, I’d be happy t—”

“—No way, pal. I don’t need you to let a dame down easy for me.” you bury your face in your hands, though, because part of you kind of wishes Steve would. “I’m just, I dunno, not ready for that yet.”

Steve nods in agreement, then smiles sheepishly.

“Natasha used to try to set me up with any attractive woman with a pulse,” he says it like it’s some utterly scandalous piece of gossip, and you can’t help snorting with mirth.

“‘Used to’? As in ‘not anymore’?” your stomach starts turning somersaults, but you keep talking “What, you didn’t like her selections?”

Steve’s eyes get kind of wide and he suddenly has a small coughing fit into his fist. His face is very pink.

“Um, I told her I was still kind of getting over someone.” he admits, scratching the back of his neck and getting even redder.

You suddenly have a vivid mental picture of a stunning, commanding woman in uniform, with dark hair and red lips.

“Peggy,” you wince a little at the name, and hope that Steve chalks it up to sympathy rather than the bitter pang of jealousy it really is.

Steve’s eyes are sad now, and his smile is sad, too. You want to kick yourself for even starting this stupid conversation.

“Yeah,” he says finally, exhaling the word like a breath he’s been holding. “Peggy.”

You stand there awkwardly for several beats, then make a truly lame excuse to go hide in your bedroom.

Your heart is racing and you feel dizzy and hot. You don’t remember it hurting this much the first time.

You sleep in your own bed, and Steve doesn’t ask any questions or knock on your door.

You toss and turn all night, but as much as you need him to hold on to, it stings too much.

. . .

“ _Yo_ , Bucky-bear, I’m talking to you.” Darcy’s voice snaps you out of your self-deprecating spiral of thought.

“How do _you_ even know about Bucky Bears?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Bucky Bears were mass-produced during the war. The other Howling Commandoes gave you endless amounts of shit for being the one turned into a cuddly stuffed animal for kids. You marvel at this newfound memory for a moment.

“Uh, _duh_ , they’re kind of a national symbol of friendship.” She rolls her huge eyes. “Or, patriotism, or sniping or whatever.”

Huh. You hadn’t thought they’d have that kind of staying power. You hope that Stark doesn’t know, but you have a sinking feeling he’s got it saved up in his bottomless arsenal of things to annoy you with.

“ _Sooo,_ ” she slides down the sofa to sit closer to you. “You’re not into me. Which is fine, by the way, I just, y’know, don’t really get that a lot. I need to know why.”

You goggle at her.

You imagine telling her that you’re in love with Captain America, then actually laugh out loud at the absurdity.

“Don’t be a dick, Barnes. Just give me a valid reason, and I’ll stop pestering you.”

Your first impulse is to snap at her, but you do actually like her. You don’t want her to think you’re some kind of jerk.

On the other hand, what the hell are you supposed to say?

“I’m,” you swallow audibly, staring at the far wall across the room. “I don’t think I actually swing that way.” the rest of the sentence comes out in practically a whisper.

They told you all about how it was okay to like anyone nowadays, and how two men or two women could even get hitched in some states, but somehow that old lingering shame still clenches around your heart. Darcy’s eyes get even wider, lashes fanning prettily against her cheeks as she blinks in surprise.

“Whoa, are you—are you coming out to me right now? Does anyone else know?”

You shake your head, a little lightheaded from the adrenaline rush. You actually admitted it to someone and they didn’t recoil in disgust. You feel a little hysterical.

“ _No!_ ” you yelp, a little loudly. You cringe at the emotion in your voice. “I mean, uh, no. Nobody knows.”

Darcy looks excited, then immediately woeful. “Not even Captain Perfect?” she asks, and you realize what you’re really admitting if you confirm this.

Your laugh sounds horrible, humorless and brittle. “Nope, definitely not him.”

Darcy all but flings herself in your general direction, trapping you in a tight hug and babbling about how tragic it all is and how it’s kind of a shame that the good ones really _are_ all gay. You pat her on the back a couple of times, and she gets the hint, pulling back with slightly smudged mascara.

“This is, like, _so_ much sadder than I imagined this conversation going,” she sniffles.

You shrug numbly; somehow, now that someone else knows your deepest secret, you can kind of put it in perspective. Pining after somebody for more than half a century is more than a little tragic.

It hits you like a boot to the chest, and you want to be anywhere but here. Darcy must see it in your expression, because she takes your hands in hers and gives them a squeeze.

“Do you wanna talk about it. . ?” she asks almost shyly.

You lower your head so she won’t see your face when you say, half-whispered, “Yes.”

 

So, how do you begin to describe Darcy Lewis?

You would say friend, but somehow, that doesn’t even come close to doing her justice.

. . .

You decide to talk to Dr. Yu, your therapist about what you told Darcy. 

When your next appointment rolls around, you tell her that you're in love with Steve. She looks pleased.

"I'm glad you've decided to acknowledge that part of yourself, James."

You grimace, partly at being called by your given name.

"Well, it's not like it's going away anytime soon, so." you shrug noncommittally, picking at a loose thread in the armrest of your chair.

Dr. Yu stares at you from over her clipboard. She arches one eyebrow.

"Do you _want_ it to go away?"

You hadn't really considered that as an option. You wonder what it would be like notto love Steve as desperately as you do. 

You think that it is more an integral part of who you are than anything else. The thought of it being gone upsets you.

"I've loved Steve since we were kids," you tell her. Your chest still achesto speak it out loud. 

Dr. Yu tilts her head, quirking her lips in a small smile. 

"I'd ask what Steve thinks about all this," she taps the side of the clipboard with her pen "But I think I already know the answer to that."

"Steve isn't," you say. You stop, chew your lip. "Steve doesn't," you try again. It's so hard. Why is it so hard? 

"Steve doesn't reciprocate your feelings?" 

"Steve doesn't know." you snap, feeling raw and wide open. Dr. Yu writes some more on her clipboard. Suddenly, you think you'd rather be  _not_ here. 

You rise to your feet. 

"I think I'd like to be done for today," you try to sound casual before you bolt out of Dr. Yu's office.

. . .

 

About a month or two after the Sarkovia mission, you get a phone call from Maria Hill.

“You sure it’s me you want, not Steve?” you can’t help the note of skepticism in your tone of voice.

Hill sighs. “No. We’ve got a, well, sensitive project we’d like to ask you to supervise. I can’t tell you more than that unless you agree.”

You think about it, chewing your bottom lip. You can hear Steve massacring something that maybe once was a song in the shower down the hall.

“Will I have to hurt anyone?”

“ _God_ , no. Barnes, we aren’t trying to make you a weapon again, you have my word.”

Your shoulders relax, and you close your eyes. “I—okay. Um, yes. I’ll do it.”

“Great. I’m sending you the files right—now. Report to SHIELD as soon as you’re done going through them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I wish ‘ma’am’ didn’t make me feel so old. Goodbye, Sergeant.” She ends the call, and you summon JARVIS to help you open the files on the computer you still haven’t quite mastered.

“JARVIS?”

_“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”_

“Can you, um, show me the files that Deputy Director Hill sent?”

_“Certainly, sir. Do you require any further assistance?”_

“No, that’s it. Thanks, JARVIS.” The files all flood in, hundreds of windows layered one over the other on the flat screen monitor. You click the top one, which is labeled PROJECT SARKOVIA in big, official-looking letters.

_“Very good, sir.”_

You click through, skimming the preface and heading straight for a page that has pictures.

There are two head-shots; one boy and one girl, both with flat expressions and hollow eyes. They both look angry and sad.

**SUBJECTS: Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Wanda AGE(S): 21 years**

**DATE OF BIRTH: UNKNOWN**

You go on to read about the superhuman abilities of these twins, kept prisoner essentially for most of their lives by some nut-job until the Avengers had taken him down.

The white-haired boy, Pietro, has super-speed. You wonder how the hell they managed to catch him in the first place. A vein throbs somewhere in the vicinity of your forehead.

Still, you keep reading.

The girl, Wanda, she’s got some serious power. Telekinesis, from the looks of it, as well as the ability to manipulate energy fields.

A light goes on in your brain, and before you realize it, you have thrown the laptop at the wall.

Steve comes running in. He takes in the sight of the crumpled, shattered computer and the way you are breathing raggedly, and frowns.

“What’s wrong, Buck? What happened?”

You almost want to laugh; Steve automatically assumes that it had to have been the fault of someone or something else, the laptop being broken. He refuses to see any bad in you.

“ _SHIELD._ ” you grit out, and realize you are fuming. “They—Hill asked me to step in on a project they’re working on. It’s just a couple of _kids_ , Steve.”

Steve looks confused, but then understanding dawns on his face, and his expression goes stony.

“The twins from Von Strucker’s fortress,” he balls his hands into fists, and you nod.

“They’re keeping them in a facility for observation. Fuckin’ observation, my ass. That’s just PC -talk for 'experimenting on'.”

“Get your shoes on, Buck. We’re going over there.”

 _This_ Steve is one that you love best, the Steve who is righteous in his anger, who takes up his shield and fights for noble cause. It lights a fire in your belly to see him looking determined and furious. He is doing this not only for the twins, but also for _you_. He understands what this means.

You hope that they will listen to Steve’s words.

You hope they will listen to yours, too.

. . .

“What the hell is the purpose of this ‘project’?” Steve snaps angrily not two seconds after you’re behind closed doors in Hill’s office.

She appears unruffled, except for the faint crease between her eyebrows.

“They were hostile, tried to hurt the Avengers, including _you_ , in case you've forgotten.”

Steve grits his teeth. “They’re just _kids_. They were just doing what they thought they had to do.”

“That’s a nice thought, Captain, but you’re failing to see the bigger picture here.” Hill’s tone has taken a decidedly sharper quality. She doesn’t like to be questioned.

“All due respect, ma’am, what I _see_ is SHIELD running tests in secret on two orphans from a tiny, war-torn country, just because they happen to have abilities that might prove _useful_ to you!”

Steve isn’t even pretending not to raise his voice, now, and you’re getting antsy. You keep checking the door, making sure there aren’t any guards coming to take the two of you away. You don’t want to have to kill anyone today, but you will if need be. You will take Steve and run.

“All due respect, _Captain_ , you have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Hill is glaring daggers at Steve, and you put your metal fist straight through the reinforced plaster of the wall. They both turn to stare at you.

“You want me to help them, isn’t that right?” your voice is rough, low. “I’ll talk to ‘em. I’ll tell them about—about me. Hell, I’ll even train ‘em to fight properly. My only condition is _no more testing_.”

Steve’s eyes are shining, not with fear, but like—like he’s proud of you. Hill looks annoyed, but strangely resigned.

“They should be treated like humans.” You look away, gaze drifting over the plaques lining the walls, the commendations and gold-sealed certificates. “When you’re treated like a thing for long enough, you forget how to be more than that. I would know.”

. . .

Pietro Maximoff has no desire to talk to you.

He zooms around, poking you hard in the ribs as he passes, rustling your hair and making it blow into your eyes.

He calls you American scum and tells you to fuck off in Russian with that air of smug superiority that only the young can manage.

The next time he tries to sprint by, you grab him by the collar of his velour tracksuit with your metal arm and lift. He struggles a little, eyes huge and darting.

You reply (also in Russian) that you used to be the fist of HYDRA. You tell him that you were brainwashed, tortured, forced to kill; it is surprisingly easy to say these things to a stranger. The weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter afterwards.

You tell him that he and Wanda are going to be moved to a secure floor at the Avenger’s tower. You tell him that they won’t be running anymore tests.

He frowns, looks like he doesn’t believe you.

“Why?” he asks in heavily-accented English this time. “Why would they change their minds?”

You smile sharply, setting him down and releasing the collar of his jacket.

“Because,” you reply “I asked them nicely.”

 

END PART V. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> I know I promised more serious stuff this chapter, and I failed. Next one, though. Next one...


	6. PART VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha digs deep and asks the real question on everyone's mind.
> 
> Pietro and Wanda endear themselves to Bucky, who refuses to admit to any such thing. 
> 
> Things get a little silly. Feelings continue to overwhelm our mending hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY!
> 
> I promised I would update tonight, and here I am, coming through in the crunch. 
> 
> I'd like to get at least one more chapter posted over the weekend, but I have a lot of stuff going on so that's a big maybe. 
> 
> I'm really, really pleased that people are commenting and leaving kudos on this fic! It makes me cheese super hard.

“Hey, JB,” Sam is leaning against the counter in your and Steve’s floor at the Tower when you return later that day.

The twins are being transported to the secure floor, and you feel completely drained.

Steve stayed to escort the vehicle carrying them (of _course_ he did), earning himself many a crack about his Boy Scout tendencies. You grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and slump down into one of the kitchen chairs.

“I heard about what you did today up at the SHIELD headquarters, man.”

You shoot him a withering glare.

“What, like how I punched a hole in Maria Hill’s wall?”

Sam actually gasps. “ _No_ ,” he huffs. “The other thing. The thing with the Wonder Twins.”

When you continue to stare blankly, he rolls his eyes and pulls out the chair across from yours.

You wonder idly how it is that Sam always manages to look entirely comfortable no matter where he is. He and Natasha have that in common, you think, though she developed that skill as a result of being trained to be a blank slate. You get the feeling that Sam really just is that adaptable.

“Why did you volunteer to help them?” he asks, using his calming, VA counselor voice.

You hate when he does that; it’s a dirty trick, mainly because it always works.

Sighing, you fiddle with the frayed edge of your sleeve. “Because, they need help.” you reply flatly.

Sam shakes his head, unwilling to let you be petulant. “Come on, Barnes. Look who you’re talking to right now. Now give me the real reason.”

You make a face at him.

“Okay, _fine_.” you snap. “Because when I was at my lowest, _I_ had someone to help me.”

Sam’s eyes go soft, but he knows better than to say anything too sappy.

“Aww, look at you. Growing emotionally as a person and shit.”

“You better shut it, right now, Wilson.”

“Absolutely not. I bet this is what momma birds feel like when they watch their babies fly out the ne— _hey!_ ”

You throw your empty water bottle at Sam’s face, but he dodges it easily, still giggling.

…

The two of you watch a few innings of the ballgame, Sam groaning exaggeratedly every time you complain about how the sport has changed since your day.

When Steve comes in and sees the teams who are playing, he starts in on his very well-worn diatribe regarding those traitorous Dodgers, which you are all too happy to join him in.

Sam eventually puts his hands over his ears and proclaims loudly that he is _never_ watching baseball with you two old windbags _ever again_.

When he removes them a minute later, Steve catches your eye from across the coffee table and smirks. You flash him a quick grin because you know that he’s in one of his little shit moods. You graciously take the first rotation.

“Hey, Stevie, remember when we were so poor, we had to listen to the game through the wall on a radio that was playing in _someone else’s_ apartment?”

He actually throws his head back and cackles, which absolutely does not do funny things to your insides. Sam throws his arms up in defeat. Steve’s eyes twinkle and his smile makes you want to sock him in the jaw or kiss it off his face.

“Those were the days,” he agrees. “Hey, Buck, remember when we were so poor, we had to wash all our laundry in the bathroom sink? In cold water?”

You sigh with exaggerated nostalgia. “And don’t even get me _started_ on the cost of a movie ticket nowadays,”

“Aw, Buck, remember when we saw _Wizard of Oz_ at the pictures? And it was all in black-and-white—”

“—Oh my _god_ , just stop.” Sam is half-laughing, half-cringing. “Do you do this shit to Tony? ‘Cause I’d pay money to watch y’all do this shit to Tony. Just _please_ , have _mercy_.”

“No need,” Steve waves a hand “I’m pretty sure JARVIS has it on security footage somewhere.”

 

..

Natasha shows up a little later to find the three of you in a heap, clutching your sides with tears in your eyes, Sam choking out the sentence

“JARVIS—re— _oh_ _god_ —rewind the one with the basketball game!” before collapsing back into helpless guffaws.

Natasha joins in when you all start trying to do impressions of Tony’s pinched face in the last frame, and Steve _really_ loses it.

. . .

Your first day with the twins goes about as well as you’d expected—which is to say, not very.

Pietro is alternatively sullen and conceited, and Wanda barely says a peep once you’ve finally managed to coax her out of the shadows.

Two hours in, and you’re exhausted _._ You want to text one of the others to help you, but that would be missing the whole point of this stupid task you’ve taken on.

Just when you’re ready to call for lunch as an excuse to go find Steve and complain, Wanda surprises you by tugging the sleeve of your hoodie with her powers.

“Your mind is full of holes,” she says with a curious tilt of her head.

“That’s what they tell me,” you reply mildly, though you are suddenly on edge. Wanda nods like you’ve confirmed something.

“It _is_ full of holes,” she continues in that same observational tone “But they are being patched over. Your mind is healing itself. With new memories, and old ones.”

Pietro stops zooming around when he notices that his sister has fixated on you. He watches from the other side of the room, ready to react should anything go awry.

You are standing in the middle of the room, stiff as a board, while Wanda paces slow, tight circles around you. She hums a little song and your chest tightens and you want to cover your face but you keep your hands at your sides.

“You have suffered,” Wanda enunciates in her halting accent, as though it is universally known and accepted. “You want to help us.”

Her voice holds a tremor of disbelief. Her mossy-green eyes are wide and full of childlike hope.

“His mind tells you this?” demands Pietro, coming off of his spot on the wall. Wanda nods.

“What shall we call you, then?” she asks in her lilting little voice. “You have had many names, hmm? Will you be ‘Yasha’? Or ‘Bucky?’ No, no; that name is special.”

“James _,_ ” you rasp, barely audible. You clear your throat and repeat it more loudly. Wanda seems satisfied with this.

Pietro looks bored; you realize he must be, having stood still for nearly five whole minutes.

“James,” Wanda tries it out, lips curving into a pretty, pleased little smile. She looks up at you, eyes warm and nothing at all like the dead eyes of that photo in the twins’ file, and you feel a flutter of pride that you are able to witness this change in her demeanor firsthand.

“Would you like to see my power, James?” she asks, still glowing.

You find that it isn’t hard at all to let yourself smile back, and you tell her that you’d be honored.

. . .

Four days into your sessions with the twins, you’re utterly drained.

Instead of going straight back to your floor of the tower, though, you decide to drop in on Natasha. JARVIS scans your biometrics and tells you that Ms. Romanoff was expecting you, and the door slides open with an efficient little whirr.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Natasha smirks without looking away from her phone.

She’s always doing that; acting like whatever she’s said is the cleverest, funniest thing in the world. You know better than to argue with her, so you settle for a scowl.

“Rough day at the office?” she teases when you flop down face-first onto the sleek black love-seat opposite her armchair.

You make a muffled sound to adequately convey your pain.

“Poor baby,” she sighs. You groan in agreement, burying your face in a throw pillow. You hear place her phone on the end table and get up, the sound of her bare feet padding across the carpet. She nudges you with one deceptively sharp knee until you roll over.

“Scoot,” she commands. You obey. Natasha is the only person in the whole world allowed to give you orders. She nestles down onto the couch and pats her lap.

You gladly lay your head on the soft, muscular bed of her thighs, practically purring when she starts running her fingers through your hair and scratching lightly at your scalp.

“They’re talking to you?” She is making it clear that you aren’t getting out of talking about your new day job, even as she turns you into a puddle under her practiced fingers.

“ _Mmm_. . . yeah, they are. The girl—Wanda—she talks more, though. They’re both so young, Tasha.”

She taps you right in the center of your forehead gently.

“We were young like that, too.”

“ _I_ was never young,” you scoff, but you know what she means.

When you trained her in the Red Room, you weren’t _physically_ any older than you’d been when you fell from the train--physical being the keyword. Mentally, you were hard to pinpoint. The brainwashed can be tricky that way. Natasha had been scarcely more than a child when you first taught her to kill without hesitation.

“How’s Steve?” she asks, as if she doesn’t live in the same building and work for the same people as Steve.

You make a noncommittal noise, open one eye so you can see what kind of face she’s making. It’s the carefully neutral expression she wears when she’s got very specific motives.

“You still sleeping with him?”

“ _Natasha!_ ” you open both eyes so you can glare up at her.

“Sheesh, re _lax_. I just meant are you still sleeping in the same bed as him. Way to be cool,” she snorts. "Not _._ "

You make a face that could under certain circumstances be considered pouting.

(You are 97 years old. You do not _pout_.)

“So _are_ you?” she pokes at your bottom lip and you pretend to bite her finger. You growl and turn over on your side.

“You know, by not answering the question you’re kind of answering it anyway.”

“He’s—it _helps_ , okay? _Jeez_.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight; you’re still trying to use your recovery as the reason you sleep all snuggled up with Rogers? Have you really become this pathetically bad at lying?”

You sit up so you can cross your arms over your chest and frown at her properly.

“What’s your problem, anyway? What’s with the sudden interest in how I get my beauty rest?”

She levels a cool gaze at you.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Barnes.” She pats the top of your head, a small smile curving her full lips. “I won’t bug you about it anymore, you have my word. Unless,” she amends quickly “I feel that it is absolutely imperative that I intervene. For your sake.”

You chuckle at that, and press a soft kiss to the silk-smooth skin of her cheek.

“Thanks, Natalia.” You make sure to look deep into her eyes, really work the shiny-puppy dog angle. “Now turn the TV on so we can pretend this conversation never happened.”

She actually laughs for real, a rich, warm sound that goes unheard more often than not.

You stay until midnight watching episode after episode of _My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding_ and running catty commentary in various languages.

. . .

“When can we go outside?” Pietro greets you at the door about a month into their rehabilitation.

He asks this every single day, his face mere inches from yours.

“ _Well_ , I got good news, an’ I got bad news,” you drawl, affecting an even heavier Brooklyn drawl than your normal one. The twins get a kick out of you when you act extra-American.

“Bad news first, please,” chimes Wanda from the other room. Pietro scowls.

“Bad news is, you still can’t go _out_ -outside.”

Pietro visibly deflates, all that wild enthusiasm he was brimming with ebbing away. You hold up a hand before he can start in on his whining.

“The _good_ news is,” and you pause for effect, “That you are officially cleared to leave this floor. You’ll have access to most of the floors of the tower, with the exception of the Avengers’ personal floors and Tony Stark’s robotics lab.”

Pietro lights up like you’ve just given him a gift. Wanda appears seemingly out of nowhere, but she looks apprehensive.

“What about your floor, James?” she asks, tilting her head in that kittenish way of hers.

You hadn’t given it much (any) thought until this moment, but you decide to go with your gut and apologize to Steve later, if it comes to that. You wonder if it’s a sure sign of your improvement that you know exactly which face to use so that Steve won’t be mad at you.

“You’ll be allowed access to my floor. I’ll be sure to let JARVIS know.”

_“Already done, Sergeant Barnes.”_

“See?” you point at the ceiling and wiggle your eyebrows. Wanda grins, looking younger than ever.

“We’re gonna head down to the common area first so you can meet everyone. If you feel uncomfortable or you wanna get out of there at any point, just give me the signal like we practiced, okay?”

Wanda tugs at the short sleeve of your white t-shirt with her powers. Pietro sprints past and taps you twice on the shoulder.

“Good. Everybody ready?”

“ _Yes,_ ” they chorus, sounding as impatient as children half their age.

“Let’s go meet some Avengers.”

. . .

Everyone is acting casual when you enter the common area; Clint and Natasha are bickering over the last spice muffin while Sam and Darcy appear to have undertaken the noble task of teaching Thor how to play MarioKart; Tony is in the kitchen trying to get on Steve’s last nerve, and Jane and Bruce are engrossed in an animated conversation about things that are way over your head.

You clear your throat to get their attention.

Wanda is hiding behind you like a young child, holding onto the fabric of your shirt, and Pietro looks like he’s itching to run.

“Who’re your new friends, Barnes?” Natasha actually looks friendly, and you could kiss her for it.

“Ooh, new friends!” Tony claps his hands, attention quickly shifting to you and the twins. “Is this where you’ve been going all day, Red Scare?”

Steve elbows him in the ribs with enough force that he stumbles a little. You reach down and place your metal hand on the small of Wanda’s back, nudge her forward.

“This is Wanda,” you recite, feeling absurdly like a schoolmarm. “Wanda, this is everybody.”

She mumbles something that may or may not be hello.

“Wanda is amazing,” you say, unable to keep the pride from coloring your voice. “You wanna show ‘em what we’ve been working on?”

She looks at you, confidence less shaky by the minute, and nods.

You feel the oddly pleasant tingle of her forcefield around you, lifting you off the ground until you’re hovering nearly five feet from the floor. The impressed murmurs are not out of forced politeness, and when Natasha compliments her, Wanda’s cheeks flush with pleasure.

Not to be outdone, Pietro dashes around the entire perimeter of the floor so fast that he’s invisible, managing to snatch the spice muffin right off the table from under Clint and Natasha’s noses.

“ _That_ is Pietro,” you roll your eyes. “ _Boys_ , am I right? Always hafta show off at that age.”

“You were never like that, though, huh, Buck?” Steve’s eyes are crinkling at the corners, and his smile is fond.

“I most certainly was not,” you sniff haughtily.

Pietro is still moving at the speed of light, knocking over a vase and causing a stack of papers to blow in a little swirling vortex.

Darcy gets bored with the video game and saunters over, looking cute as a button in a little striped sundress.

“What’s going on, did the newbies show up yet?” she pops her gum loudly, then, seeing Wanda, immediately flits over and introduces herself.

The two of them seem to get on like a house on fire, and you’re about to give yourself a nice mental pat on the back, when Pietro comes speeding back into the area where everyone has congregated . . . and runs smack into a wall.

When he picks himself up— _probably seeing little stars and cartoon birds dancing around his head_ , you think—he’s making possibly the most goo goo-eyes in history, and he’s making them at _Darcy_.

“Oh, _shit!_ ” yells Sam from the couch, presumably about MarioKart.

“Yeah, I think ‘oh shit’ pretty much covers it,” you agree, then cover your mouth with your hand so no one will see your grin.

 

 

END PART VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaand there's a new ship in town. . . 
> 
> My lady love and I had an intense moment the other day when we said 'what-if Pietro from AoU was still around and he met Darcy and tried to woo her OMG' and thus, a new background relationship for this fic was born.


	7. PART VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky continues to deal with his (perceived) one-sided pining for Steve. 
> 
> Awkward exchanges galore, featuring a little side dish of Darcy & Pietro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's just a quick little update I wanted to post because a) I have the day off today, and b) I felt like there needed to be a little more Steve/Bucky tension, otherwise my big climax later on will seem like it kind of came out of the blue. 
> 
> So. Yes. Enjoy!

The day after the twins meet everybody, Pietro corners you and demands to know who the girl he saw (and nearly concussed himself over) in the common area.

“I s’pose you mean Darcy,” you say with an eye-roll that could rival Natasha’s. “She’s Jane Foster’s—the lady who showed you the telescope?—Darcy’s her assistant.”

The three of you are in the gym on the third floor, getting stretched out and geared up for a long training session.

“She is like _rusalka._ ” he breathes reverently, eyes looking at a little glazed. “Is she promised?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, because seriously? Being 'promised' was already getting old fashioned back when _you_ were Pietro’s age.

“Pietro talks of nothing else,” sighs Wanda, levitating a small set of weights and making them spin in midair. “He is like dog with bone.”

“I _must_ know her,” Pietro clenches his fist and shakes it at the air dramatically.

You take comfort in the knowledge that JARVIS is recording this and you can have it played back for Steve and Sam later.

Sensing that training will be a big, fat waste of time otherwise, you get a pretty smart idea.

“Alright, kid.” you point at Pietro, who stands at attention. “You want an introduction to Darcy? You got it— _if_ you can block or dodge more than ten blows from the arm within the time limit. While Wanda hexes you.”

Pietro nods, jaw clenching determinedly. Wanda pulls her long hair up into a ponytail and spreads her legs wide in the fight stance you taught her. JARVIS sets the clock at -30:00.

You tie your own hair back and roll your shoulders, relishing the way your joints pop.

“On my count, ready guys? One, _two_ , _three_ —”

Pietro is literally so fast he can’t be seen, but your senses are still so heightened, both from the version of the serum running through your veins and from all your training. You cuff him hard on the shoulder when he passes, and he lets out an indignant yelp.

The next fifteen minutes are a whirlwind of combat; Pietro is really giving it his best today, leaving Wanda to focus all her energy on hurling hexes his way to trip him up.

You actually work up a sweat trying to track his every move, and make a mental note to start some agility training for yourself on the side.

By the time the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the sparring session, you are actually breathing hard.

Wanda’s hair is coming loose from her ponytail, hanging limply around her flushed face. Pietro is beaming, his wide grin so unabashedly pleased that you can’t even be annoyed by it.

He managed to dodge or block exactly thirteen blows, which is more than double what he’s been able to do since you started training him. You think you might send Darcy a bouquet. You wonder what kinds of flowers she likes.

That’s when you notice Steve standing over by the far wall, staring at you with a strange expression that you can’t quite read.

“You here to train, or just to watch?” you call over to him.

He goes pink, like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing, but he meanders over to where you are just the same. He hands you a bottle of the weird blue sports drink you like.

“You were—I haven’t seen you like that before, Buck.” he says in a breathless rush.

Now it’s your turn to feel your face heat.

“Ehh,” you wave him away with a hand. “S’nothin’, just a little sparring. I’m sure you’ve seen better.” You twist the cap off the sports drink and take a long swig, just so you can collect your thoughts.

Steve is wearing that stupidly tight blue shirt, the fabric stretching obscenely across his stupidly muscled upper body.

“Jeez _,_ Buck, take a compliment why don’t you?” he smiles kind of bashfully, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “But seriously, though. You’re kind of amazing to watch.”

You didn’t think it was possible for your face to get any hotter; you were wrong.

Unsure how to reply, you take a few more sips from the sweating bottle in your hand. The beverage is ice-cold, yet somehow utterly ineffective at relieving the burn in your cheeks.

“Made me wish I had my sketchbook,” Steve says, a little shyly. You snort.

“You wanna draw pictures of this mess?” you gesture vaguely at yourself. “Be my guest, pal, whatever floats your boat.”

Steve looks all earnest suddenly, like whatever he’s about to say, he wants you to really believe.

“You’re not a mess, Buck.” Steve looks pained at the very idea. “You’re—”

But you don’t get to find out what Steve (that utter sap) thinks you are, because at that very moment, Pietro barrels into you at full speed and knocks you flat on your back.

Looming over you like a very excited, very large puppy, you half expect him to try to lick your face.

“We go meet Darcy now?” he asks hopefully.

Steve barks out a laugh and actually has to cover his mouth to keep more from following it. You grunt and shove Pietro a little.

“Okay, big guy, just— _ugh_ —lemme up, willya?” when you’re back on your feet, you turn to Steve. “Stevie, when I get home tonight, I swear to _God_ , you better be waiting with dinner and a back-rub for me.”

You’re kidding, obviously, so when Steve turns positively scarlet and says he’ll see what he can do before hauling some serious ass out of the gym, you’re kind of dumbfounded.

. . .

“Hey, how’s my best girl?”

Darcy looks up from the book she’s engrossed in to give you a sunny, lipsticked smile. Then she sees Pietro, and her smile turns all kinds of sassy.

“Oh, _hey_ , it’s Wile E. Coyote. How’s your face?” she asks him.

The Looney Toons reference is totally lost on Pietro, but at least he can tell that she’s teasing him, because his ears go a little red.

“My face hurts only a little, thanks to the ‘ice-pack’?” he looks to you for confirmation that he’s remembered the name correctly. You nod encouragingly.

“Darcy, this is Pietro. He, uh, really wanted to meet you, so. Yeah.”

She flutters the lush fans of her lashes, looking for all the world like an old Hollywood screen siren.

“Why, James Buchanan Barnes, you shouldn’t have!” she clutches a hand to her bosom and drawls with a ridiculously overdone Southern twang.

You grin and do a little bow. “Well, I figure I owed ya one,” you say with a big saucy wink.

“So, Pietro, huh? I like your tracksuit,” Darcy giggles.

Pietro is making those dumb goo goo-eyes at her again, and you quickly think up an excuse to leave the two of them alone.

“Hey, uh, I know this is kind of last-minute, but, I gotta go help Steve with some stuff at home. Y’know, chores and whatnot. Think you’ll be okay keeping Pietro company for me?”

Darcy clearly sees this for the obvious ploy it is, because the smile she shoots you is absolutely wicked.

“Oh, I think we can amuse ourselves,” she tries to look innocent and pretty much fails completely. “Do you like movies, Pietro?”

Pietro nods eagerly. Darcy blows you a kiss and then shoos you towards the door.

“We’ll be just fine. Go help Steve clean his pipes or whatever it was you said.”

You let that slide on account of how disgustingly _cute_ they look as you leave, Darcy leading and Pietro following, moving at normal human speeds for once in his life.

. . .

“You’re home early,” Steve says happily when you slink into the living room on your floor. “How’d the Darcy thing go?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they ran away together,” you reply with a fond snort.

“Dinner’s nowhere near ready,” he sounds genuinely sorry, and you fight the urge to chuckle “But . . . I could—did you really want a back massage?”

“That’d be—yeah.” you choke out before you can think about it.

“C’mere then, you big mook. Lie on your stomach on the rug there,” he points to the carpeted area bracketed by the couches.

“Should I—I mean, d’ya want I should take my shirt off, or . . ?” you feel, in this moment, like it might actually be possible to die of embarrassment.

Steve, bless him, looks more flustered than you feel.

You have hazy memories of rubbing Steve’s back for him, back when he was sickly and got sore joints and had coughing fits all the time; you think you remember him working your shoulders for you, too, when you’d finish a shift down at the docks. You wonder if it was hard to keep your hands in check, back then when they were on Steve. It sure as hell is now.

“Uh, if you wanna, shirt-off is fine. Or, y’know. Whichever.”

You decide that your body is too sore for you to bother trying to hang onto your uncharacteristic prudishness, so you hastily pull it over your head and throw it onto the sofa.

“You gotta lie down, Buck.” Steve’s voice is teasing, but something else in his tone makes your stomach flutter.

You do as he says and stretch out on your stomach, grabbing a throw pillow to smash your face into.

When Steve kneels down and straddles you, you nearly have a heart attack.

His hands come down warm and strong on the flat of your back, though, and when he starts working the tense knots along your shoulder blades and your lumbar, you nearly moan at how good it feels.

Steve must’ve rubbed some kind of muscle cream between his palms before getting them on you, because your skin is tingling where he’s been massaging it, and there is a pleasantly piney smell filling the room.

“ _Jesus,_ Stevie, when’d you get so good at this, huh?” you half-moan into your pillow.

Steve kneads at your sides, drags his knuckles up your ribcage. You have had back-rubs from Natasha and Darcy, and even Bruce once (it was actually one of the best you can recall having) but this, _this_ is something else.

Maybe it’s because of the serum that Steve knows to dig a little harder with his fingers for stubborn knots, or maybe it’s just because it’s Steve; either way, you’re practically a puddle on the floor after a few minutes.

You hope that the potentially awkward erection you’re currently sporting will soften enough by the time the massage is over, otherwise you’re going to have to make a run for the bathroom. That would be possibly the least smooth move in history.

By the time Steve’s been working you for ten minutes, you’ve long since given up on trying to bite back the breathy moans that claw their way out of your throat with each pass of his hands. You have exactly zero shame at this point.

Then, you notice that there’s something a hard object brushing against your backside every so often. It takes a couple seconds, but your eyes practically bug out of your head when you realize that Steve’s hard, too.

Your head is a whirlwind of a hundred thoughts at once. Why would Steve get hard giving you a back-rub? Is it because he’s got a lot of pent-up energy, or is it something else . . ?

“Hey, Steve _,"_ you say weakly " _Steve_ , lemme up.”

Steve must realize that you’ve become, _ahem_ , aware of his current situation, because he climbs off of you so fast, immediately stuttering an apology.

“Oh, shit, Buck,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he wishes he could disappear on the spot. “I’m—it’s my fault, I’m so—”

“—I’m gonna grab a shower, okay pal? After that, we can eat. I’m starving,” your voice sounds shaky and panicked, but you make a run for the bathroom before Steve can say anything else.

In the ridiculously roomy shower stall, you turn the water all the way up as hot as it can go, and for the first time in you’re not sure how long, you touch yourself.

You just keep seeing that stupid, tight shirt and his stupid, handsome face, remembering the feel of his broad hands on your bare skin. Your hand moves faster, squeezing the base of your cock and biting down on your lower lip to keep yourself quiet.

It’s over pretty quickly, the evidence washing away under the steady stream of the shower, swirling down the drain. You sag against the wall, breathing hard.

. .

Neither of you say anything about the massage incident, though it’s obviously making things a little awkward.

Dinner is kind of hilarious, what with Steve trying so hard to be extra normal.

Later on, when you’re reaching over to turn off the light for bed, Steve tries to bring it up.

“Look, Bucky, what happened earlier—”

“—Can we just not talk about this right now, Steve? I’m really tired,” you snap, flicking the light switch with more force than is strictly necessary.

You can’t see it, but you know the wounded look Steve’s wearing.

“Whatever you want, Buck.” he says softly before turning over to lay on his side.

You don’t fall asleep for a long time, mind racing with all the variables and possible explanations. You wonder if, just maybe—but no.

You can’t let yourself have that, that hope.

You don’t get to have Steve, not like that.

 

Still, you can’t stop yourself from trying to remember the feeling of him pressed up against you.

 

 

END PART VII

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (uwu) it got a little steamy there. It'll get steamier in later chapters, probably. Also, there's about to be a big, cliched threat to the safety of mankind. Possibly will have to add more than 10 chapters. 
> 
> Oh, and kissing. 
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone wondering, the definition I'm using for a 'rusalka' is a water nymph from Slavic folklore infamous for being beautiful and deadly seductive. I like the idea that Pietro finds Darcy so beautiful, he mentally equates her with a creature whose beauty literally lures people to their death.


	8. PART VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve don't have time to discuss the awkwardness from the last chapter; there's a situation and the Avengers are suddenly hugely outnumbered. 
> 
> Steve takes a bad hit, and Bucky puts aside his reservations because saving Steve is why he was born. 
> 
> That, and loving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOKAY! I know I said I probably wouldn't have time to post over the weekend, but I was happily mistaken!
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing ~serious action stuff~ so I hope it all reads okay. I wanted to post a longer update than I have been, but it came out just under 4,000 words and I'm okay with that. 
> 
> Next post will be either tomorrow or Monday, cross my heart. <3

Steve is called away in the wee hours of the morning, Tony Stark’s voice sounding legitimately worried over the phone.

You pretend to be sleeping when Steve tucks the blanket back around you before tiptoeing out of the bedroom, but as soon as you hear that he’s left the apartment, you sit bolt upright in bed.

Tony is usually blasé and snarky, even when there’s a real emergency that the team needs to handle; the fact that he’d been concerned enough to let the mask of conceited carelessness slip a little, that worries you a lot. 

You find that sleep has decidedly flown the coop, and you resign yourself to wrapping up in one of Steve’s hoodies and shuffling into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. The hoodie you grabbed from Steve’s dirty laundry hamper smells sweetly of his plain soap and sweat.

You tell yourself that he goes on missions all the time, he has six capable pairs of eyes watching his back; still, anxiety has blanketed itself snugly around your mind.

The tea you make is too hot to drink just yet, so you take your mug (a gift from Clint; it reads _#BRAINWASHCREW_ in bold black typeface. Steve’s pinched, pained expression when you showed him was a thing of beauty) and you settle into the plush cushions of the sofa and turn on the television.

You are valiantly trying not to think about what happened the other day, with the uncomfortable bodily responses and the newfound awkwardness creeping up between you and Steve. You try not to think about the hurt in his voice when you shut him out. It’s no good, though; talking about it would only lead to a soul-baring confession (you) and the kindest, most painfully gentle rejection (Steve) and then it would all be fucked up beyond repair.

The two of you would drift apart, then, because no matter what he’d say, it would change things.

How could he knowingly continue being your whole world if he becomes aware that you, selfishly, want more?

You don’t want to be apart from Steve, not ever again. You will try harder, be better, if it means that you can laugh at Steve’s dumb jokes and make fun of his grandpa clothes and find new and exciting ways to embarrass him using the internet.

You scan the channels on the television passively, more for the calming effect of going through the motions than for actually choosing a program. Skimming through, though, your eye catches a news clip of fire and what looks like New York Presbyterian taking some serious structural damage. You immediately jam the back button on the remote and lean forward, eyes wide.

A news helicopter is flying low enough to get footage of what looks like a full-scale attack, the threat being some kind of humanoid creatures suited in strange, silvery armor. Your stomach drops, heart hammering in your chest. You already know _before_ you see the unmistakeable shield cut through the shot and take out three of the armored beings, but it makes it more real. Too real.

Steve is there, along with the others, fighting against a seemingly endless stream of whoever the hell these guys are.

The news anchor is speaking quickly, trying to give a play-by-play of a situation that keeps evolving faster than can be processed, and you see Stark flash past in the Iron Man suit working in tandem with Sam. You feel weak and shaky; your hands are trembling so badly that you can’t hold your tea without splashing droplets onto your knees.

You signal JARVIS, ask him in a ragged voice if he can pull up the cameras from Tony’s suit or from the comms or something, goddammit.

This turns out to be an even worse idea, though, hearing the voices of people you care about (and when the hell did that happen? Caring about people?) sounding tight and overwhelmed. You want to turn it off, but the idea of not knowing is so much more awful somehow.

Clint is picking off some of the aliens—Stark confirms your hunch when he blasts one and says _“Die, alien scum!”_ —from a high vantage point on a building, and you hope that there is some higher power up above who is watching Steve’s six in your stead.

Natasha is on Steve’s bike, now, and she’s using a row of parked cars as a ramp so she can throw herself over the handlebars in an elegant twist of sheer athleticism to knock one of the alien soldiers off of its little hovering craft to commandeer it.

 _“You owe me a new bike, Widow,”_ Steve’s voice is breathless but amused over the comms, and your body relaxes a small amount.

 _“He was about to shoot his laser gun-thingy at you, so I think we’re even.”_ comes Natasha’s deadpanned response half a second later.

Thor is kind of magnificent to watch in battle, and you guess it makes decent sense, seeing as he was literally born for it. You feel a little thrum of pride when you see him working closely with Steve, striking mjölnir against the shield to stop the enemies long enough to do some real damage.

Sam and Tony are still swooping in to take out as many soldiers as they can, but it seems like they just keep coming.

There is a sound like no animal you’ve ever heard, and then all of a sudden, the biggest, greenest— _thing_ you’ve ever seen comes rampaging down Amsterdam, and it dawns on you that that beast is _Bruce_. You make a mental note to never, ever piss him off, even a little. You’ve never seen him when he’s the Other Guy— _the Hulk_ , you remember quickly—and it’s actually terrifying.

Hulk grabs two of the aliens like they’re a couple of baseball bats, then _swings them like baseball bats_ to knock others off of their hovercrafts. You’re almost cracking a smile at this point, but then one of the beams of bluish-green light that are zinging through the air manages to hit Steve.

It catches him square in the chest, and he goes flying backwards into the thick plate glass windows of the hospital’s front entrance. Your heart stops, and you clutch at your hair and open your mouth but no sound comes out.

 _“Cap? You okay?”_ Tony’s voice crackles in, uncertainty shading his tone even through the static. There is no response, and you feel dizzy.

 _“Anyone got a clear visual on Rogers?”_ he asks, still engaged in combat with two aliens. _“Falcon? Can you see Cap from your position?”_

 _“Negative,”_ comes Sam’s reply. _“Hawkeye, Widow, Thor, someone needs to get down there and aid the Cap, his comms are down.”_

You are white-knuckling the edge of the armrest, and there is no way for you to calm yourself. You try to count and breathe, but the air gets stuck in your chest and the exhaling is painful.

 _“Sergeant Barnes? You have visitors at the door. Shall I tell them now is not favorable?”_ JARVIS's prim, pleasant voice jars you from your trance. 

You can hardly make sense of the polite request, then you realize it must be the twins.

“Send ‘em in,” you say weakly, unable to move from your seat, eyes glued to the chaos playing out on the screen.

_“Very good, sir. Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, entering now.”_

Pietro is on the couch in zero-point-five, immediately enrapt by the television screen. Wanda sits down beside you, very aware of the heightened state of anxiety you are currently in. She puts her hand on top of yours, lacing her fingers cleverly through your own so they release their iron grip on the sofa cushion.

“James, you must be calm.” she whispers. You shake your head, open your mouth, but still no words come.

Suddenly, Pietro has gone as white as his hair. Wanda, deeply attuned to her twin’s every emotion, goes rigid beside you.

“What is it, Pietro? What’s wrong?”

He points to the screen, where the name on the front of the building is clearly still legible.

“ _Dasha,_ ” Pietro sounds as shaken as he looks. “She goes to hospital with Jane Foster today, to visit with sick children.”

You have a horrible, sick sense of understanding. Dasha is Darcy, and the idea of _her_ getting caught in the crossfire frightens you just as much as it does Pietro.

Your mind is up and running. There is, you are aware, a locker at the far end of the Avengers’ tactical room that has no name or symbol on it. It appeared not long after you and Steve took up permanent residence at the tower, though you are almost certain that Steve knows nothing about this locker’s contents. The locker at the end of the row contains, as it happens, a combat suit in a blue so dark it could easily be black. There are boots with the toes dipped in something far more precious than steel, and there is a black mask not unlike the one the Winter Soldier wore. Though you have made it clear that you do not want to be an Avenger, Coulson and Hill evidently thought that you deserved the option, should you at any point change your mind.

After a long several minutes, you reach for the television remote to turn it off. The screen goes black, and you let the familiar cold, hard lens of the Soldier come down over your eyes.

“We’re not going to sit here and watch, not when we can fight _,_ ” you grit out, clenching your fists.

Wanda looks scared, but Pietro squares his shoulders and stands straighter, though he still looks an uneasy shade of green.

. .

 

The three of you ride the elevator down to the floor just below the rooftop, and you are barely even surprised to find two new lockers have appeared beside the one that _‘_ isn’t’ for you, each one containing gear tailored to the twins for combat. This seems to cheer them, if only a little, and when they’ve returned with the suits on, you have a sudden vision of the powerful heroes they will become.

It leaves you a little breathless, if you're being honest.

You equip Pietro with various small, close-range weapons that he has had at least some experience with, and you give Wanda a Glock .26 and a thigh holster while sending up a silent prayer that Natasha won’t murder you in your sleep for loaning out one of her spares.

“Listen up.” you want them to understand, to really know that the three of you are preparing to wade into real danger, and blood will be shed. “Pietro, I want you to find Darcy and Jane if Thor hasn’t already, make sure they’re safe. Wanda,”

“Yes?”

“You can do this. Use your gifts, and do not, I repeat, _do not_ hold back.”

She gives a small, resolute nod, mouth a grim, tight line. You take a deep breath, adjust the small arsenal you have strapped to your body.

“Okay,” you exhale, tamping down all the emotions warring for dominance in your head in this moment. “Let’s go steal a Quinjet.”

. . .

The fighting hasn’t let up by the time you’ve managed to pilot yourself and the twins to the block where the hospital is, and you swallow the dread edging up the back of your throat.

You fly low enough so Pietro can jump easily out of the hatch beneath the quinjet and break into effortless lightspeed. Then, you make a decent landing (you wonder if it was the Russians who taught you to fly) on top of a nearby building.

Wanda is breathing in shallow pants, and you wish you could just hug her, but now is not the time for soft or gentle.

Now is the time for hard and cruel.

“Show them what you can do, _solnyshka_.” You press a kiss to her forehead and use the endearment you’ve taken to calling her by in your head.

She smiles shakily still, but you know that she is pushing aside her fear.

The two of you leave the quinjet and run down what feels like a hundred flights of stairs and crash through the glass doors of whichever building you landed on.

Wanda branches away from you and ducks along the walls of the buildings, darting quickly and remaining unnoticed by the hoards of attacking aliens, conjuring her little hexes and quietly felling several of them.

You have to keep moving. you need to find Steve.

Stepping easily over the rapidly rising piles of alien remains, you scan the area for any sign of Steve’s blue suit or his shield—

—then, you spot Natasha trying to fight off three aliens at once, clearly struggling more than she’s letting on. You easily swing one rifle up and into position with your metal arm, firing a perfect kill shot into each one of their exposed, gray-green necks.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” her eyes widen when she sees you.

You flash her a look and she understands.

“I’ll signal Iron Man and Falcon to cover you so you can get inside the front of the building.” she tells you.

You nod in thanks, gritting your teeth and pushing all of the _Bucky_ parts of you as far down as you possibly can. Bucky is the one who is weak with his love for Steve. Bucky will not be able to handle it if—

—Pietro is suddenly at your side, and he’s carrying a soot-smudged and frizzy-haired Darcy piggyback-style.

“Curbside pick-up, Bucky-bear, can't beat it,” she grins weakly, and it eases a little of your worry to know that she’s at least okay enough to joke.

“Dasha went back to save the dog,” Pietro explains gravely. You look to Darcy for further detail.

“He’s a therapy animal, you know, for kids who are really sick?” she stops to cough, deep and painful. “Thor came to get me and Jane, like, right away, but I had to go back. It’s a _dog_ ,” she says feelingly.

You love and you hate Darcy Lewis’ enormous heart. You are almost afraid to ask, but you make yourself anyway. “Did you get him?”

Pietro smiles proudly. “He is safe with Jane Foster and the children.”

“My hero,” Darcy pokes her head over Pietro’s shoulder to plant a noisy smooch on alongside his cheekbone.

Even under the dirt and dust, Pietro is glowing deeply red.

“Get Darcy to safety, then find your sister.” you tell him, trying to imagine the way Steve would say it, were he here.

Pietro is off like a shot, and you catch Sam and Tony signaling you from above.

You break into a run, firing at any soldier who even takes a step in your direction, until finally, _finally_ , you’re edging around the debris to make your way into the ruined hospital lobby. Heart racing, your eyes dart rapidly across what’s left of the room, scanning desperately for any trace of Steve.

Then, you catch a glimpse of it—blue and white, lying still, half-trapped beneath a sizable chunk of wall that’s been leveled.

“ _Steve!_ ” you rasp, wasting no time crossing the room and kneeling down where he’s fallen. His right arm and leg are caught under the cement fragment, but his chest is moving, if only very slightly.

Relief floods your whole system, but you force it back. You need the rage, and the adrenaline.

“Let’s put Stark’s money where his mouth is,” you mutter, and grip a crumbling corner of the fallen wall with your left arm.

You can hear the machinery kicking into high gear, a low, smooth sound humming from within the arm itself. The little jointed spaces between the plates glow bright blue, and slowly you are able to lift the debris off of Steve.

“Sorry, Stevie,” you say under your breath, before using the Vibranium-plated toe of your boot to deliver a powerful kick to his midsection, effectively moving him out of the cement’s eventual trajectory. The second he’s safe, you let the chunk of wall drop with a deafening crash so you can kneel over Steve’s unconscious body.

“ _Steve,_ ” your voice is so full of all the fear and emotion you’ve been fighting back that it hurts to talk.

Steve doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move. You gently, carefully undo the strap on his helmet and remove it, mindfully cradling the back of his skull so it doesn’t crack hard against the floor.

Your heart is in your throat, because Steve _has_ to be okay. There is no version of events where you can live if Steve is not okay.

Shifting over a little so you can place his head gingerly onto your lap, you look down at his dirty, bruised face and feel the tears stinging your eyes.

“C’mon _,_ Stevie, open your eyes for me,” your voice is trembling, but you keep talking anyway. “It’s me, it’s Bucky. I’m here, Stevie, you’re safe.”

You stroke his hair back from his forehead, wincing at the way it’s matted down with sweat and grit and blood.

You have a memory in which Steve is still so skinny it hurt to look at him, and his face is flushed with fever. You remember laying a cool rag on his forehead, whispering to him softly and telling him that it would be okay, that you would be there.

Now, you are outright pleading.

A tear rolls down your face and splashes down over Steve’s eyebrow. “ _Please_ , Stevie, don’t—”

“. . . Bucky?” Steve’s voice is awful, a painful gravelly mumble, but it is the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.

More tears well in your eyes, and your heart gives a single, aching lurch in behind your ribs.

“ _Yeah_ , it’s me, pal.” you don’t even care how choked up you sound, because you are so relieved. “I’ve got you, Stevie. ‘M not goin’ nowhere.”

Steve’s eyes are bleary when he opens them a little, but he gazes up at you and smiles around a badly split lip.

“How come you’re always savin’ my sorry hide, Buck?” he chuckles feebly, coughing almost as painfully as he used to before the serum. You shush him and keep petting his hair until he closes his eyes again.

You tell him in a soft voice that you’re going to kill him, just as soon as he’s made a full recovery.

Not five minutes later, Stark crashes through the one unbroken grid of windows and lands skillfully a few feet away.

Natasha, Sam, and Thor enter through the giant gap made by Steve’s nosedive.

“I wish I could say I’m surprised to see _you_ here, but, frankly,” Stark makes a dismissive gesture in the suit.

“Where are—”

“Calm down, Mama Barnes,” Stark cuts you off hastily “The Wonder Twins are safe and sound. I had JARVIS autopilot the quinjet you, um, _borrowed_ and fly ‘em back to the tower.”

Your shoulders sag with the relief his words bring.

“Captain Rogers requires immediate healing!” booms Thor loudly. “I earnestly offer you the service of Heimdall for his hasty transport.”

You’re only sure what a few of those words mean, but the meaning behind them is easily understood.

“Come on, James, we’re going back to the tower. Thor will make sure that Steve is on the med floor faster than we can get him there.” Natasha’s voice is low and soothing, and you let Thor scoop Steve’s battered body up like he’s the size he used to be.

“ _Ooh_ , _hey_ , Thor! Wait up!” Tony has managed to procure his phone from somewhere on the suit. “How many times do you get to see _Captain America_ being carried like a damsel in distress?”

“I hate to say this, but Tony, you really _are_ a genius,” Sam grins, fishing his own phone from the back pocket of his flight-suit.

“Stop it, Wilson, you’ll make me blush.”

Natasha has come over and snaked an arm around your waist; her presence both comforts and grounds you as Thor and Steve dematerialize in a beam of soft, multicolored light.

“The threat has been neutralized,” she says evenly as you walk in step with her out of the wreckage towards the SHIELD vehicle that’s waiting to take you home. The way she phrases it somehow makes it real and true, and the Soldier who has been riding in Bucky’s seat today is finally able to sink back into the shadows, appeased.

Sam and Tony are already flying away, and Clint meets up with you and Natasha, wearing a lot of dust and a wry little half-smile.

“Well, that was one way to spend a Sunday,” he remarks dryly, bumping Natasha gently with his shoulder.

“Still better than church,” Natasha deadpans, and you feel a hysterical laugh bubble up from somewhere inside.

“Your girl, Wanda,” Clint turns to you once the three of you are en route to the tower “She saved my ass out there, took out nearly _twenty_ of those fuckers when one got the drop on me.”

You are fiercely, brilliantly proud of Wanda. You remember having sisters, once, and feeling this burning, bone-deep pride over them, too.

“You done good, Barnes.” he pats you on your metal shoulder.

“Nah," you chew on the cuticle of your flesh thumb. It tastes awful. "Just ‘paying it forward’ or whatever it is Sam’s always telling us to do.”

Natasha kicks your foot with hers and her eyes hold the rest of the smile ghosting over her lips.

. . .

You don’t leave Steve’s bedside until Sam threatens to call Pepper if you don’t at least take a shower and eat something.

As soon as you’ve cleaned yourself up and wolfed down a muffin _and_ a sandwich, you’re back in the armchair beside Steve’s sleeping form, reading aloud to him from _The Hobbit_.

You remember reading to Steve when he was laid up with fever or pneumonia, knowing that even if he couldn’t hear you, somehow he could feel that you were close by.

You think that reading out loud is more to soothe yourself than Steve, and you wonder if your old, younger self ever realized that.

The smaller scratches on Steve’s face and body have almost disappeared entirely, while the bruises have faded to a greenish-yellow.

You’re exhausted, and your body is finally feeling the crash after all that adrenaline from the battle. You know you should be debriefed, and that there will definitely be some stern words from Hill or Coulson (as well as some expertly underhanded attempts at recruiting you, again) but you want to be there just in case Steve wakes up.

Darcy texts you a picture message of herself, Wanda, and Pietro all wearing matching grins and pointing to the words Darcy has digitally scrawled over the image. It reads _JUST KISS HIM ALREADY_  in neon green letters, and you send back several frowning emojis.

You also send a message that says: _tell Wanda and Pietro training is cancelled tomorrow. also tell them they made me so proud._ You insert the happy-crying emoji as well as the flexing arm.

You send one more to Darcy that says: _proud of my best girl, too._ With dog and heart emojis attached.

 

 

A little while later, you find yourself nodding off in the chair beside Steve’s bed. You take his hand in yours before surrendering fully to sleep.

 

 

END PART VIII

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *exhales loudly*
> 
> I didn't blink once while writing all of this. Now I must use an entire bottle of eyedrops. 
> 
> (Also, solnyshka is the feminine form of a Russian endearment meaning roughly 'sunshine' or 'little sunbeam.' My Russian is not as good as it used to be, so if anyone can offer a better translation or just full-on correct me, please be my guest :D)
> 
> We're getting down to the wire here, and I'm really excited to post the next chapter. Still debating on making the story 12 parts instead of 10, but we will see. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! ^_^ you are all wonderful, beautiful crystal teardrop baby flower dreams.


	9. PART IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is drama! Romance! drama! dancing! fluff! misunderstanding! angst! fluff! poor attempts at humor!
> 
> (Bucky comes full circle; The Avengers are all ridiculous. Clint is great at dancing.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW.
> 
> I am so bashful and humbled by all the comments and kudos people are leaving on this fic. Thank you all for reading and taking the time to comment or show appreciation!
> 
> Okay, so, this update took a LOT out of me. I hope that the piece of my soul that was sucked from me while writing this shines through and illuminates the text--yeah, can you tell that I'm out of it? 
> 
> Enjoy ^_^

 

When you open your eyes again, it’s night.

You’ve managed to sleep for a few hours in your upright position, though your body is uncomfortably stiff in spots.

“Have a nice nap?” Steve’s voice is amused, and you swim towards consciousness through the murky ocean that is your brain. The grogginess dissipates quickly, though, because Steve is awake.

You reach over to lightly cuff him on the side of the head with your flesh hand.

“You _asshole,_ ” you breathe, boneless and relieved for the hundredth time in a day. “Almost gave me a goddamn _heart attack_ , you good-for-nothin’ punk.”

Steve rolls his eyes and grins, wincing slightly at the split in his lip that’s still healing.

“Well, at your—ahem— _advanced_ age, I’m not surprised . . .” Steve does his best innocent eyes with mixed results.

You laugh and swat him on the arm. “Y’know, Rogers, I think I hate you.”

“Aw, bull- _shit_. You’re all talk. You know you love me,” Steve shoots back with a smug grin, and then suddenly the air in the room is charged and strange.

It isn’t like you’ve never said it to each other; the two of you have been thick as thieves since before time was invented, practically.

It feels. . . different now, somehow.

A moment passes that feels like a year before you reach for Steve’s hand that doesn’t have the IV stuck in it. You grip it firmly between both of yours, flesh and metal sandwiching flesh, and Steve sighs contentedly.

“Don’t think for a second that that means you’re off the hook, pal” you say, too much softness creeping into your voice to come off as seriously, as honestly as you mean it.

“Don’ wanna be off the hook, Buck,” Steve mumbles sleepily, the drugs he’s been saturated with making their second rounds.

His eyelids are drooping and his breathing is slowing down. You keep his hand in yours even after he’s fully asleep, trying to get ahold of yourself, for fuck’s sake.

. .

As you’d predicted, Director Coulson lays it on awfully thick about your ‘heroism’ and ‘bravery’, and goes on to say how they could really use someone with your ‘skill set’ as a valuable member of the team.

Maria Hill chews you out for using weapons and an aircraft you weren’t authorized to handle, as well as for endangering the twins and yourself. You don’t take it too hard, because it’s obvious she doesn’t mean any of it.

They’re ready to kiss your boots for saving their precious Captain America.

Just when you think she’s done, though, Coulson comes back in and slaps a plain manila file on the table in front of you.

“The hell’s this?” you ask mildly, fully expecting it when he replies “Just open it, Sergeant Barnes.”

You do, and inside are a whole slew of photos from the battle at the hospital, many of which feature you. Your shoulders tense, but you force yourself to remain calm, at least, for now.

“Why are you showing me these?”

“You know why,” Coulson says evenly, and you clench your fist because, goddammit, you do know.

“Some of these are photos taken from the news helicopters, and a few were from civilians’ cellphones and reporters’ cameras.” Hill supplies matter-of-factly.

You swallow thickly. The room feels too small, and your neck feels hot.

You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to do this.

“People online are recognizing you from the shootout on the bridge in D.C.,” Coulson continues, staring you dead in the eye. “They’re asking a whole lot of questions about why the guy who tried to kill Captain America is out gallivanting with the Avengers.”

You can’t speak, so you look at the photos in front of you.

“It’s only a matter of time, Sergeant. Someone with way too much time on their hands is going to get ahold of one of these and they’re going to recognize you. The real you.”

“They got no reason t’ think—”

“— _Don’t_ they? Sergeant, in the last five years, a national icon believed to be dead _seventy years_ was found in the middle of the Arctic with a pulse. The public’s ability to believe in the impossible has grown exponentially in the time since then.”

“What are you asking me to do, exactly?” you cover your eyes with a hand, willing yourself not to bolt or to lose it.

You are trembling with the effort.

“We need to schedule a press conference, as soon as possible. If we release the information first in an official capacity, we can hopefully control the media circus that it’s guaranteed to be. I’m sorry, Barnes, none of us wanted it to happen like this,” he offers sincerely.

Hill is pacing the room like she’s anxious to leave, and you don’t blame her. You’d want to get the hell out of dodge if your places were swapped.

“How soon is ‘soon’?” you ask warily, already dreading the conversation this will provoke with Steve.

God, _Steve_ , you think wretchedly.

About to have this bullshit blow up in his face publicly. You can see the headlines now, _CAP COVERS FOR LONG-LOST PAL_ and _CAPTAIN AMERICA LIES TO HIS COUNTRY_.

“We can probably push it back to Friday at the very latest, but that’s really cutting it close,” Hill warns.

“Friday?” you gape at her, feeling panic well up inside at the thought. “That’s only three days from now!”

She makes a sympathetic noise. “I know, and it really, _really_ sucks. But, Barnes, doesn’t it always feel better to get it out in the open?”

You almost laugh, because ain’t _that_ just the million dollar question?

 

You agree to do the press conference on Friday, and agree to do lots of prep with Pepper and her PR team, all the while with Hill’s question ringing in your ears.

You promise yourself that if this all blows over, if you aren’t sentenced to the firing squad for your time as the Asset, you’ll finally let go of the secret that you’ve carried in your bones like a cancer since you were 12 years old.

. . .

 

“Are you sure about this, Buck? Because if you aren’t, we can—”

 

“Enough _,_ Steve,” you growl, shoving the scissors into his hand. “It’s _fine_. Now, quit fussin’ and cut my damn hair.”

Steve raises his hands in surrender and you sit on the edge of the tub and watch snips of light brown fall to the floor around your feet.

 

—Steve handled the news of your impending doom about as well as was expected—he stormed over to SHIELD and shouted a lot and made an impassioned speech or two about how you should be able to live in privacy if you want, and how it was a violation of the Constitution to force a man to stand trial for crimes he wasn’t responsible for. They’d calmly explained to him that you’d agreed to the press conference, and also that you were absolutely not on trial in any way. Steve had looked suitably contrite, like a scolded dog, and you had to try very, very hard not to snicker.—

 

It is Thursday night now, and your stomach is all tied up in knots while Steve carefully clips and combs and snips at the hair you were actually kind of starting to like.

You close your eyes and listen to the steady sound of Steve’s breathing, try not to wince every time the scissors snip close to your ear. The sound makes you flinch once or twice, still.

When Steve stands back and admires his handiwork, you stand and elbow him out of the way so you can look in the mirror.

It’s a little unnerving, like seeing a ghost.

Your hair longer on the top and cropped close on the sides, though a bit more modern and less severe than the haircut the old you used to wear.

You realize with some surprise that you haven’t thought of yourself in terms of _old_ and _new_ in sometime.

Wetting your hands under the tap, you run your fingers through the top of your hair so it’s slicked back a little.

You turn to Steve, palms up. “Well, what’cha think?”

Steve looks like he’s seeing a ghost, too.

There’s a long pause, a moment where you feel like you’d rather he didn’t look at you.

Then, Steve shrugs and says, “It turned out real nice, Buck. Shame about your face, though.”

 

You’re laughing too hard to even get the words out for a comeback.

. . .

You can’t sleep.

 

You’re antsy, clawing out of your own skin; still, you don’t want to wake Steve. He deals with you enough of the nights. He deserves a break.

You carefully get out of bed and grope around in the dark for your gym bag, then remember that you left in the front hall.

Shouldering the duffel bag, you step into the elevator and select the floor number for the gym.

Maybe if you can just hit something, you’ll be able to get your thoughts together. Maybe, if you exhaust yourself tonight, you’ll be so tired that you sleep through the press conference tomorrow.

. .

When you step out of the elevator and into the main training area of the gym floor, you immediately see Clint on one of the benches, doing a little maintenance on his bow.

“Can’t sleep either, huh.” he says knowingly. “Yeah, night before a big press fiasco is always rough.”

“You had to do one after you—after the thing with Loki, right?” you sit down next to Clint and unzip your bag, start unloading your practice gear.

 

“Mm,” he nods “I was scared shitless. Didn’t matter that I wasn’t at the wheel when Loki made me do those things—it was still _me_.”

 

You know what he means on such a deep level that you are momentarily stunned into silence.

After a little while, you find your words again.

 

“I’m terrified,” you admit, realizing just how true that statement actually is. “I don’t give a shit what they do to me, I just—Steve can’t suffer anymore ‘cause of me.”

 

Clint puts down the cleaning supplies and stares at you, assessing. “What makes you think he doesn’t know what the fallout is probably gonna be?”

You hadn’t considered that. “Yeah, well,” you frown “Even if he does, that don’t change anything. He’s dumb as a rock, anyhow.”

Clint cracks a half-smile. “He certainly can be,” he agrees. Then he gets a wicked gleam in his eye. “Like, for instance, how the actual fuck did he manage to miss the fact that you’re totally in _lo_ —”

“—Finish that sentence, Barton, and I will kill you with my bare hands.”

“ _Pfft,_ would not. Then Nat would come after you,” Clint says cheerfully. “Hey, wanna do some long-range target practice?”

 

You find that you actually would, very much.

. .

 

 

When you crawl back into bed with Steve a few hours later, your body pleasantly sore from exertion, you fall into a comfortable sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

 

. .

 

The press conference is over in a blink.

It’s all such a whirlwind of activity and hot lights beating down on you and cameras flashing in your face and questions being shouted at you from every direction, that you kind of barely know what’s even going on for any of it.

Steve makes a statement first, and you watch from backstage, rolling your eyes every time he says something corny about how you always had his back.

(You absolutely do not tear up even a little when you hear him say _“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”_ You really don’t.)

When you go out and take your seat beside Steve, dressed to the nines in what might as well be your old uniform, you feel like you are watching yourself from the outside.

Steve gives you a small, reassuring smile, and you know that you have to do this. For him, as well as for yourself.

At one point, the questions turn antagonistic and leading, demanding to know more about your time as the Winter Soldier and why you aren’t in jail for your crimes, but that particular reporter is quietly escorted away by one of Pepper’s team.

Mostly, it seems like everyone is losing their heads about _Bucky Barnes_ being _alive_.

You wonder vaguely what is wrong with people nowadays.

 

“So, Sergeant Barnes,” asks one reporter, tucking a lock of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear “What was it like to see Captain Rogers again after so long?”

You don’t know how to answer that.

The first time you saw him, you were still the Soldier. Seeing him hurt in a way nothing had in decades, but you didn’t truly recognize him then.

You think of the day you went to the Smithsonian to find out about who you used to be, and remember the way you saw that film loop and knew that you had loved Steve. That isn’t quite right, though, either.

Then, you remember the day that you saw him limping up the steps of that brownstone, leaning on Sam and moving like he was in pain. You remember the stab of fear you felt when you saw that he was hurt, and also the way your brain said _home_ over and over again when you were in Steve’s arms.

You glance at Steve, who is watching you along with everyone else.

“It was like I’d finally come home,” you tell the reporter, voice raw at the edges.

The crowd goes completely wild, then, and Pepper Potts has to tell them that there won’t be any further questions answered for the day.

. .

In the car on the way home, you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. Your head is heavy, and you let it loll onto Steve’s shoulder while you close your eyes for a few minutes.

“Is that really how you felt, Buck?” Steve asks softly, sounding almost reverent.

Sleepily, you breath in the scent of his shirt and settle in a little closer.

“Of course, Steve. Even when I had nothin’ I had you,” you mumble, and Steve puts his arm around your shoulders while you nod off for the rest of the way back.

 

..

You wake up in bed later to find a piece of paper resting on the pillow on Steve’s side.

Groggily, you rub your eyes and sit up so you can better examine it.

The paper is torn from Steve’s sketchpad, and features a little cartoon of Steve in the kitchen making pancakes, while the little cartoon of you sits at the table, frowning.

There’s a note at the bottom that reads _“Bucky—I felt like I was finally home that day, too. —S.”_

You carefully fold the drawing and tuck it into the dresser drawer containing your socks and emergency knife.

Then, you wander out into the apartment to find Steve, following the smell of warm butter and pancakes that’s drifting through the air.

. . .

 

The whole thing starts when Tony overhears a conversation between you and Steve regarding your bygone fondness for dance halls.

“Hey, Stevie, d’you remember—I was a pretty good dancer, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, Buck, you could really cut a rug,” Steve is saying just as Tony enters stage-left.

Tony’s eyes light up and he makes a beeline for you, practically rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist.

 

 _Oh_ , _right_.

 

“What’s this? Barnes, am I correct in my understanding of Cap’s frankly traumatizing old man-slang, that _you_ used to dance?”

Side-eyeing Tony, you raise one eyebrow. “Yeah, so what?”

Tony is clearly trying to hold in a barrage of rapid-fire one-liners, face twisting with herculean effort.

“Nothing. No reason, just wondering. I’m sure you two were a regular Fred and Ginger on the floor,” he smirks at Steve, who reddens a bit.

“Actually, Tony, I think I danced a grand total of three times back in the day.” Steve admits with a sheepish grin. “Bucky was really something, though. All the dames wanted to dance with this mook,” he bumps your shoulder with his.

“Yeah, just gonna blatantly ignore whatever this,” Tony waves his hands haphazardly at the two of you “that’s happening right now is all about. Tell me more about these dance halls from the nostalgic days of yore.”

You really, _really_ should know better than to humor him when he starts asking all these questions, like what kind of music did you dance to, what were the popular steps of the day, etc.

You should know better, but something happy and hopeful has made its way into Steve’s expression, and he’s looking at you and something inside you just says _fuck it_ , and you take Tony Stark on a verbal journey through the rich tapestry of pre-war dancing.

 

In hindsight, you really kind of had it coming, just for being such an idiot.

. .

 

A couple of days later, Tony sends out a mass text message calling everyone down to the common area for an ‘important meeting.’

This ‘meeting’ turns out to be a thinly veiled excuse to get the entire gang together (Jane, Darcy, the twins, Clint, Sam, Natasha, Thor, Bruce, and Pepper) for an impromptu demonstration of your dance skills.

There’s a big stereo that Stark has somehow built to look like an old phonograph, and brassy jazz fills the air. Steve actually facepalms.

You stare flatly at Tony. “What. The fuck.”

He’s about as good at looking innocent as Steve is at lying.

“Just trying to help Stalin get his groove back— _ow!_ What the hell, Pep?”

Pepper has the heel of her lethally sleek stiletto jammed down over the toe of Tony’s shoe, likely causing him considerable pain. She flares her delicate nostrils and narrows her eyes at him.

“We’ve discussed your nicknames for James, Tony,” she warns.

“Okay, _okay_ , I’ll play nice, cross my arc reactor.”

Pepper removes her heel from his foot, and Tony makes a little noise of relief.

“What Tony is doing a terrible job of explaining, is that he set all this up so you could, how did you put it, Tony? ‘Relive some of the good memories you actually have.’”

Pepper smiles warmly, and Tony shoots her a look of betrayal.

“I _never_ said that,” he stabs the air with his finger.

You aren’t sure what exactly to make of all this. On the one hand, it’s Tony, so you can almost certainly assume that he’s doing this to be an unmitigated ass.

On the other hand, though, it’s _Tony_ , the guy who probably has a heart almost as big and generous as Steve’s, though he’d die before admitting it.

It isn’t hard to believe Pepper when she says Tony means it as a kindness.

Steve is looking nervously at you, like he’s waiting to see how you react before doing one thing or the other.

Everyone else has gathered around, not even bothering to have pretend conversations of their own. You roll your eyes and decide to bite the bullet.

“You guys really wanna see an old man try to relive his glory days that bad, huh?”

Everyone looks around at each other, nodding in agreement.

You turn your head to crack a little grin at Steve, whose eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hairline.

“Alright, fine.”

There is a collective chorus of whoops and catcalls. You hate them all, except that you kind of really don’t _._

“Stark? Queue up something good. I’m gonna need a fearless volunteer, though; can’t Lindy Hop all by myself,” you gather your now-grown-out hair into a bun and fix it in place with the black hair tie you wear around your wrist.

“I nominate Rogers!” shouts someone who sounds like Clint.

“I second that nomination!” Sam pumps his fist in the air.

“I too would like very much to witness the good Captain attempt this Midgardian dance with Friend Barnes!” Thor claps his huge hands eagerly.

Jane is giggling uncontrollably as she sips her neat gin & tonic.

Steve looks like he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

“ _I’ll_ dance with you, Bucky-bear.” Darcy elbows through the throng, giving Pietro a very obvious pat on the rear as she does.

“You’re an angel,” you beam at her, because you know she can see Steve’s overwhelming discomfort. “S’why you’re my best girl.”

She flutters her lashes prettily and extends her hand.

You shoo the others away from the wide expanse of sleek floor.

“Alright, kiddies, make some room. Stark, music?”

“Take it away, JARVIS,” Tony snaps his fingers.

The whole floor is suddenly filled with the warm, punchy sounds of a big band playing _Bel Mir Bist Du Schoen_ , the Andrews Sisters’ flawlessly harmonizing over the horns.

You take both of Darcy’s hands and start to teach her the steps on the fly. She picks them up quickly, and in one and a half songs, the two of you are grinning and flying across the floor like it’s 1937.

You are vaguely aware of the hoots and claps coming from the others, but you’re lost in the steps and the music, your body easily remembering movements like it’s only been weeks since you last danced them. When the third song ends, you and Darcy embrace sloppily, out of breath and flushed with sweat, matching grins on your faces.

You feel good, you realize, your blood is singing and your limbs are loose and everyone is applauding and whooping and calling for an encore.

“Have mercy, gang, I ain’t getting any younger here. Maybe one of you would like to take the floor while I catch my second wind.”

They make loud noises of disappointment, but you wave them away with a limp hand.

You give Darcy a kiss on the cheek and send her over to Pietro, who has clearly been watching her like a man possessed.

Steve is leaning against the wet-bar, holding a beer that he drinks only for the taste and smiling broadly.

“Know where a fella can get one of those?” you gesture at his bottle.

Steve points to an unopened one sitting atop a coaster shaped like the Iron Man mask.

You pop the cap using the thumb and finger of your metal hand, bringing the bottle to your lips for a nice, long pull.

The beer is good; some local IPA with an environmentally conscious mission statement printed along the local artist-drawn label.

 _Tony Stark, secret hipster_ , you snicker inwardly.

Steve’s eyes never leave you, though there seems to be some kind of commotion on the makeshift dance floor, the stereo pumping out an eclectic mix of songs.

“You keep starin’ at me like I grew a second head, Rogers. What gives?” you drawl, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand.

Somewhere across the room, Tony is trying to wheedle Pepper into dancing by using a ridiculous shimmying move that has everyone snorting with laughter.

“S’nothing, Buck.” Steve shakes his head, still with that unplaceable look on his face. “Just reminiscing about all the times I watched from the bar while you danced across the floor with your date _and_ mine.”

You, in your post-dancing haze of endorphins, almost let it slip out that you’d rather have been dancing with Steve, every single time.

“ _Hmmph,_ ” you snort, making a big show of rolling your eyes. “They never knew what they were missing, your lousy dates.”

“Oh, yeah? And what were they missing, exactly?”

 _Shit_ , your brain supplies helpfully. You cast about desperately for something to say, but all you can think of are truths that are too raw and honest for Steve’s teasing query.

 

“ _JARVIS!_ ” shrieks Darcy excitedly, saving your ass yet again. “Can you pull up the soundtrack for the movie _Love Aaj Kal_?”

_“Certainly, Ms. Lewis. Any particular song you would like to be played?”_

“Uhhh— _ooh!_ Yeah, actually! Play _‘Thoda Thoda Pyar’_ , please and thanks!” She claps her hands and clears the floor again.

Music that definitely sounds Indian to your ear starts up with a solo female vocal, and Darcy is shaking out her arms and legs to loosen up again.

“Which one of you is gonna help me teach these losers how to Bhangra dance?” she shouts over the music.

To everyone’s shock and awe, it is none other than _Bruce_ who steps forward, wearing a bashful little smile and raising a hand.

“I think I might be able to help,” he tells Darcy, who practically squeals with unbridled joy.

The two of them begin a dance that involves buoyant steps, lots of arm movement and little claps and stomps to the rhythm of the very celebratory-sounding music. They turn in circles, Bruce following Darcy’s lead for the particulars, and soon a few of the others are joining in step to try it out.

Steve elbows you and grins when Pepper and Natasha actually pick it up quickly, each of them showing their enjoyment on their faces more than you’ve ever seen.

The song itself is upbeat without being too fast, and when Wanda and Pietro drag you into the mix, you spare a helpless shrug at Steve and grab his arm so he follows.

You and Steve are definitely not used to this particular style, or anything even close, for that matter; still, you can’t remember the last time the two of you had actual _fun_ like this, laughing and stumbling and horsing around.

You like this dancing, too. The chorus of voices on the song is happy and the melody is awfully catchy; you’ll have to remember to do an internet search for more of it.

When the song ends, you find yourself laughing with everyone, Steve at your side looking happier than you’ve seen him look in all this time.

You want to do something stupid like kiss him. You shake off the urge.

“Okay, Darcy, where the hell was I when you learned how to do that?” Jane demands, flushed and beaming with her arm around Thor.

“I was a weird kid, I had a lot of hobbies,” Darcy shrugs, then turns to Bruce, who is outright grinning from ear to ear. “But what about you? I’m pretty sure that was the coolest plot twist ever when you stepped up.”

Bruce scratches the back of his head and looks away, still smiling widely.

“I spent a little time in the _Panjab_ region during my sabbatical in India,” he replies humbly.

Tony has clearly just had his mind blown, because he can’t stop staring at Bruce, mouth agape.

“I can’t believe it—you’ve been holding out on me, Banner. _Bhangra dancing?_ And you never offered to teach me?”

 

Everyone fixes themselves drinks or cracks bottles of beer while the music lowers in volume a little, and Steve plops down next to you on one of the sofas with a contended sigh.

“Can you see it yet, Buck?” Steve asks after a few moments of comfortable silence.

You fix him with a look that says _explain_. He sets down his bottle so he can angle his body towards yours.

“I _mean,_ ” his tone is fondly exasperated “Can you see the good in yourself yet?”

You scoff, flick him hard in the arm with your metal fingers.

“Aw, Stevie, why do you gotta be such a sap all the time?” you complain.

Steve’s grin turns wicked. “Oh _,_ this from the guy who practically had to be dragged away from my bed to take a shower while I was still knocked out from that ray-gun.”

“That was different, pal, n’ you know it.” you knock back the rest of your second beer. “And, anyhow, maybe I just wanted to be there when you woke up so I could strangle you for being so stupid.”

Steve laughs, full and true, and you don’t think your poor heart can take much more of this.

“Um, excuse me, Birdbrain 1.0? _Yes_ , Barton, that’s you,” Tony is making his idea-face again, and you and Steve instinctively lean forward in your seats to get a better view.

Clint must see something else in Tony’s faintly maniacal expression, because he starts shaking his head and backing away, hands waving in front of him.

“Oh, no. No way. No fuckin’ way, Stark. I can’t believe you read that far back in my file!” Clint moans up at the ceiling.

“Can’t you? Really? Come on, you know me better than that by now.”

Tony strides to the center of the room and stands on top of a footstool. “Okay, well, for those of you _without_ access to heavily encrypted files detailing the lives and loves of all the Avengers, prepare to have a _bomb_ go off in your feeble minds.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, which is somewhat ruined by the fact that Natasha yells _“Do a flip,”_ in a louder version of her usual deadpan tone.

“ _Ahem,_ ” Tony clears his throat loudly to be heard over the snickers “As I was _saying_ , in the depths of his file, I stumbled upon the Holy of Holies; Clint knows how to _tap-dance._ ”

Clint hangs his head in defeat, and the room practically explodes with raucous demands that he prove it.

“Alright, hold up a sec, hold up,” Sam shoves Tony off of the footstool, who loses his balance and squawks indignantly.

“Clint, my _man_ , my bird-bro, I too am a disciple of tap.”

Clint’s head snaps up, slow grin pulling at his mouth. “Are you up for it?” he nods to Sam.

“Oh, you _know_ I’m up for it,” Sam jumps down from the footrest with a little flourish.

“Is this actually happening? Oh, sweet Jesus, this is happening. JARVIS? Make sure you’re recording this,” Tony’s glee knows no bounds.

 

What follows in the next several minutes can only be described as utterly and completely unbelievable.

Sam and Clint perform an impromptu soft-shoe tap routine spanning two whole songs and several different styles, that leaves everyone’s jaws on the floor.

“And _that_ , my friend, is why you _never_ try to make a fool out of a bird-bro. _Caw, caw mothafucka_!” Sam fist bumps Clint while looking smugly at Tony, who looks like he might actually _die_ from all the surprise revelations he’s had tonight.

 

The madness continues with Thor attempting to teach all of you how to do a traditional Asgardian folk dance—a venture that ends in a broken lamp and a lot of spilled alcohol—and at one point, Natasha leads Pepper in a graceful, sweeping ballroom dance to some song about a wrecking ball that makes Sam laugh so hard he has to lay down because his stomach hurts.

“How about a slow song for the lovebirds, JARVIS?” Tony suggests innocently.

_“Your usual playlist, sir? Or—”_

“—NO, definitely not that one,” Stark yelps, interrupting the A.I. “How about something real old-fashioned? This one I bet even you two fossils’ll know,” he winks at you and Steve.

_“I think I have something that meets your specifications. I shall play it now, sir.”_

The song that comes floating out of the speakers is one that you remember, and although it’s sung by someone different, it still makes your heart clench because it has always made you think of Steve.

 _‘They . . . asked me how I knew . . . my true love was true, oh, I of course replied, something here inside cannot be denied,’_ the man on the stereo sings over slow, sweet strings that sweep alongside the plinking bass you’ve come to equate with music from the 1950s, a decade you missed completely.

You feel warm all over from the beer and the laughing and the dancing, but now, with this song, you are afraid you might do something stupid.

“Alright, everyone pair up and leave lots of room for Jesus,” Tony waggles his eyebrows and pulls Pepper away from the wall.

Darcy lets Pietro lead, his expression full of serious concentration, while she giggles uncontrollably. Wanda extends a hand to Sam, and they shuffle together in a way that’s more platonic than romantic.

Natasha, Clint, and Bruce beg off, opting instead to sip drinks at the bar in companionable silence, while Thor twirls Jane a tad forcefully for a slow dance.

The air between you and Steve feels charged, pulled taut like a kite string when the wind picks up, and you remember the promise you made to yourself.

You think this might be the most terrifying thing you’ve ever done, but somehow you’re making yourself stand up and offer your right hand to Steve, who is sitting on the couch looking bewildered.

“You goin’ in for a handshake, there, Buck?” he asks slowly, and you will your face into what you hope is an easy smile.

“A handshake, for cryin'—I’m askin’ you to dance this song with me, Rogers. You gonna leave me hanging?”

Steve’s eyes dart nervously, but they land on yours and he looks so young, it makes your throat hurt.

“Aw, c’mon, Buck. You know I’ve never been a dancer,” he bites his lip, still looking up at you through his stupidly pretty eyelashes.

“Oh, for the _love_ of—humor me, okay? You’re makin’ me look like a jerk, here.”

Steve smiles, shy and sly both, takes your hand and stands up.

“S’because you _are_ a jerk, jerk.”

But he lets you lead him clumsily onto the floor where all the others are dancing leisurely.

 

At first, you’re not sure where to put your hands and neither is Steve, but you decide to go for one of each, and he does the same.

The music is gentle, swelling with crescendoes and pulling back again, and your heart is beating out triplets in your chest.

“I never danced like this with anyone,” Steve says quietly, though no one else could hear him anyway.

You think that he might be feeling bad about that dance he never got with Peggy, and you will your hands not to shake with the fear of what you are (maybe) about to do.

“ _I_ woulda danced with you like this, Stevie. If it wouldn’t of got us killed or arrested, I’d have saved every dance for you.”

The words are out of your mouth, and you feel lightheaded. It was easier than you ever thought possible, but there it is; the truth revealed.

Steve makes a face like biting into a lemon, though, and he looks away.

“Don’t say stuff like that, Buck, okay? Just—it’s not _fair_.”

Now you’re confused.

It’s one thing for Steve not to want to hear about your—how you feel about him, it’s not what you’d exactly call ‘not fair’, though.

“You lost me, pal.” you manage to sound normal enough, though you feel like you want to run and hide.

Steve looks uncomfortable, like he’d rather you just drop the subject completely.

You have to see this through, though. You’ve held it in for so long that now it’s killing you.

“Look,” Steve says tightly “I _know_ you don’t—it’s fine. Just, please don’t tease me, Buck. I—just, don’t.”

You feel like you’ve just taken a severe blow to the head, because your mind is spinning, and Steve is disentangling himself from your arms and giving a bright, fake smile to the others as he makes up some bullshit excuse to go upstairs.

 

The song ends, and you’re left standing there with empty hands and no idea what just happened.

. . .

“Are you ready to talk about it now?” Natasha asks, quirking an eyebrow and swinging her feet where they dangle from her perch on her kitchen counter.

Everyone is hanging out watching a movie (with the exception of Steve, who is presumably on your shared floor) but Natasha had looped her arm through yours and told you to walk with her or suffer the consequences.

Now, you’re at her kitchen table, staring sullenly down into the generous double-shot of very expensive vodka she’s placed in front of you.

“ _NO_ ,” you say, more loudly than is necessary, glaring at her.

You don’t _want_ to talk about it. You’re miserable. Steve probably hates you, and you aren’t even sure what you did.

“James,” she scolds, knocking back her own shot with elegant precision “You need to talk about it. This has gone on long enough. Now, spill.”

You sigh petulantly, groaning and crossing your arms over your chest.

“I asked him to dance with me,” you frown.

Natasha snorts. “Yeah, I meant after that, moron.”

“Takes one to know one,” you make a face at her. “I asked him to dance and I sort of . . . I tried to tell him about—you know, about how I, um, feel. About him. Fuck.”

“Well, if it went half as smoothly as the way you just told me now, I’m not surprised he’s pissed.” she drawls, flaring her nostrils. “Not to mention, confused. Are you sure he even understood what you were trying to say?”

You moan and bury your face in your hands. You fucked it up, just like you always have. Just like you knew you would.

“Did he say anything back?” Natasha prods mercilessly.

“Just that it was mean to tease him, n’ that it wasn’t fair? Jesus, I don’t _know_. What the hell am I s’posed to do with that? Tell you what ain’t fair. . .” you grumble, still facedown with your arms on the table.

You feel a small hand on your shoulder and look up; Natasha is looming over you with more presence than men three times her size.

She digs her fingers into your collarbone.

“I am done watching you crash and burn, Barnes. Get your ass upstairs and talk. to. him. Text me if you need me, just _go_ , before I kick your ass.”

You try to use the pleading, puppy-dog eyes that work so well on Steve and are met with a flat stare.

“ _Ugh._ Fine, I’m going,” you shoot her a wounded look over your shoulder before closing the door behind you.

 

The elevator ride back to your floor is much too short.

. .

“You gonna tell me what the hell you meant by ‘not fair,’ Rogers?”

Steve looks up from his sketchpad like a deer in the headlights, and you find that you’re angrier than you realized.

“Bucky, I—”

“—Save it,” you snap, wanting to just get this all over with. If you have to lose Steve, there’s no way it’ll be painless; you hope it can at least be quick. “The truth, Rogers. Don’t bullshit me. You forget I know you too well.”

Steve sighs and sets his sketchpad aside, rising to his feet so you’re both eye to eye. You’ve never felt so sick to your stomach with nerves; not even when you were shipping out to the front lines.

Steve swallows audibly, and your mind is telling you to do a hundred different things. _Run away. Stay. Yell at him. Cry. Hit him. Kiss him. Hide._ You do none of these.

“You know why, Buck.” he says slowly, deliberately. He says it like it physically hurts.

“No-o-o,” you say carefully, “I really don’t think I do.”

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky Barnes. You know _damn_ well how I’ve been—” he falters, clutching at empty air in frustration.

You’re impatient and edgy so you practically shout “Just spit it out, Steve!” At exactly the same time as he blurts out “—in _love_ with you since I was twelve!”

Steve looks shocked at himself, and you stare dumbly because _what?_

“You happy now?” he asks bitterly, and your body is almost numb with the lightness that fills you because _yes_ , you want to shake him by the shoulders and—

“ _Steve_ ,” you exhale shakily, but it comes out like _please_.

You close your eyes and will your hands to stop shaking. “Say it—Steve, can you say that again?”

Steve probably looks like he’s just had a big swig of sour milk, but he has always done whatever you ask, so he repeats himself, sounding miserable.

“Fine. I said, I’ve been in love with y—”

But he doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because you’ve waited long enough, and you can’t fucking _wait_ anymore and you kiss him right on his stupid, pink mouth like you’ve only wanted to for as long as you can remember.

Steve makes a small, strangled noise against your mouth, then surges into the kiss with the same headstrong, stubborn fearlessness with which he does everything else.

You reach up to cup his jaw, and he pulls you to him with one massive arm. When you break apart, each a little breathless, you look up and see Steve staring at you with something like awe in his expression.

You feel dizzy in the best way.

Steve is flushed red, and his eyes are bright.

“Really, Buck?” he half-whispers, voice unsteady “You mean it?”

You look down and then up at him through the net of your eyelashes, feeling absurdly shy.

“Yeah, Stevie,” you reply softly “I really, really do.”

And then Steve leans back down and in so he can slot your mouths together, slower this time, and so sweet it makes you ache.

This kiss is about the slide of his lips on yours and the way his nose bumps against your cheek and his thumbs gently stroking the sides of your face.

This kiss is about all those summer rooftops, all those scraped knees and bloody knuckles and shiners; it’s about all those dances you danced with beautiful girls when what you really wanted was this.

When it ends, Steve is practically glowing. “Bucky,” he says.

“Well, who else, sweetheart?” you drawl, smiling so wide it hurts. "By the way, I love you, too."

“Jerk,” Steve says, but he’s beaming like someone just told him his dearest wish was in the post, on its way to him.

. . .

You find that once you start kissing Steve, it’s awfully hard to stop.

Things get pretty heated in a short amount of time, and you find yourself flat on your back with 220-pounds of supersoldier pressing you down into the couch cushions with his hips.

Not that you’re complaining—definitely not.

A couple of times, you both get the giggles and shove at each other like kids, name-calling and laughing breathlessly as you wrestle and take turns pinning each other down.

When you’re on top of Steve, straddling his hips and holding his arms in place with your knees while he squirms and snorts helplessly, you fold your arms over your chest and try to look stern.

“Y’know something? You’re a real piece of work, Rogers.” you squint down at him with your best Colonel Phillips-face.

Steve huffs indignantly, still trying to get free.

“Me?!” he crows “What about _you?_ You can’t put it all on me, Barnes, it takes two bananas to make a daiquiri.”

You snort hideously at that. “ _What_ ,” you gasp, feeling a strong wave of a giggle-fit you won’t be able to shake.

“It was on _Portlandia_ , that show Sam and Darcy watch,” Steve furrows his brow and actually pouts. “Don’t laugh at me! I’m not making it up!”

You try to speak but you’re shaking with silent laughter too hard for any words to come out.

“I take back what I said about loving you,” Steve says grumpily.

You release his arms from your knee-lock and climb up to kiss his neck tenderly, still chuckling to yourself, until he stops pretending to be mad.

Steve makes an impatient sound that rumbles through him and vibrates against your lips where they’re pressed to his throat. He hauls you up a little higher and kisses you breathless.

. . .

You’re arching your hips up to grind against Steve, about to suggest taking things into the bedroom when Natasha, Sam, Clint, Darcy, Pietro, Wanda, and Tony all come barreling in like there’s an emergency.

The two of you jump apart, mortified.

“Um,” Steve says, going ten shades of red.

“Whoa _,_ ” says Sam.

“ _Yesss,_ ” says Darcy, bumping fists with Clint in triumph.

“I can honestly say that for once in my life, I have no words.” Tony says, blatantly staring.

“I told you to text me,” Natasha says, like it’s a valid explanation for why almost everyone you know is standing in your living room, embarrassing the hell out of you and Steve.

Well, more Steve, really. You kind of couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Maybe we go now?” suggests Wanda helpfully, and you are going to buy her a really, really nice present later. You always knew she was your favorite.

“Yeah, that sounds peachy,” you sneer, willing them to move faster. “We’ll have plenty of time for all the inappropriate jokes and invasive questions later. Like, tomorrow _._ ”

There is a collective murmur of agreement—except Tony, who is apparently still stuck on the fact that he didn’t see this coming—and everyone files back out into the elevator, thank _fuck_.

. . 

“So, uh, that was weird,” Steve says, feigning casual.

“Pal, look at where we live,” you snort. “‘Weird’ kinda comes with the territory, don’tcha think?”

“Yeah, what am I even saying?” Steve shakes his head, then grimaces. “Tony’s gonna be a nightmare tomorrow,” he groans.

“That’s assuming I decide to let you out of bed tomorrow,” you leer, loving the way Steve blushes under your hot gaze.

You pull him in close enough to trace the vee of exposed skin above the neck of his shirt with the cool metal tip of your finger. He shivers at the touch, and your nerve endings wired into the arm light up.

“Does this blush go all the way down?” you ask, smirking.

“Bucky!” Steve yelps, scandalized. He is unaccustomed still to those kinds of come-ons, Lord only knows why.

“ _Steve,_ ” you stare at him with exasperated fondness, “It’s been over _seventy years_. I think I’ve earned the right to talk a little dirty to my fella.”

Steve’s eyes go soft and his face looks all of a sudden so young.

“‘M I your fella?” he asks shyly, looking just as sweet as he did that summer night on that rooftop a whole other lifetime ago.

“I don’t see anyone else here, punk.”

“Thank god for that,” Steve says with a grin that makes you want to lick into his mouth until he moans.

. .

 

“So, what’s a guy gotta do to get a fella like you into bed, doll?” You give him your best sultry eyes, the ones that used to work magic on all the dames way-back-when.

“Oh, my god,” Steve chuckles helplessly “You’re terrible. That was awful. Get away from me.”

“Not a chance, buddy, you’re stuck with me.”

“I guess that’s my lot in life,” Steve sighs dramatically and looks away “Stuck with Bucky Barnes, he of the worst pick-up lines in New York.”

“Oh, I’ll stick _you_ ,” you growl, nipping at his lower lip so he makes one of those noises you’re already crazy for.

Steve is still laughing when he shoves you away.

“You’re not getting me anywhere with those lines,” he tries to look like he means it.

“Aw, come on, Stevie,” you let your voice drop low and soft, and _oh_ , yes, Steve’s smile is fading and being replaced with a look of hunger. “I’m just so crazy about you, I can’t think straight,” you purr.

Steve’s pupils are wide and dark, and you know that he wants, just as you do.

“I’m _dyin’_ here, Stevie,” you take his hand and guide it down so he can feel the hard line of your erection through your pants. “If you want to, if you’ll let me, just—”

“So quit your yammerin’ and take me to bed, _jerk._ ”

 

You do.

 

When Steve is all spread out on bed, hand twisting the sheets, his blue eyes wild and skin flushed from his face all the way down his chest, you think that he might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You think that this may have been the best day of your life.

 

He is.

 

It was.

 

 

END PART IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (I drew a lot of inspiration for the final line from Barbara Kingsolver's famous 'he did, it was' line. Also, check out the songs from the impromptu dance-off, they're really great! I'm going to be writing two more parts to this story, one that will probably take the rating up to E, and one epilogue. You all are wonderful. ^_^)


	10. PART X.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes' luck finally turns around. 
> 
> It only took, oh, 70 years. . .
> 
> (Fluff, smut, and a generous helping of feels.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. 
> 
> I am seriously overwhelmed by the response I've gotten from people about this story, and I am SO GRATEFUL to everyone who has read, left kudos, commented, or bookmarked. It means so much to me that you all are enjoying it. 
> 
> There is some semi-explicit sex in this chapter, so if that's not your thing, feel free to scroll past anything that is off-putting. Let me know if I should change the rating to E from M. 
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, I know I was going back and forth on the issue of whether or not to add extra chapters, but I thought long and hard, and I'm a little disappointed to say that I think it has run its course in ten.
> 
> But fear not! I'm already working on a full-fledged sequel, as well as a collection of drabbles featuring the whole gang and some new relationships within (ahem, the Darcy/Pietro thing eheh) 
> 
> That said, here is the final installment of this tale. Thank you all for being so lovely!
> 
> Enjoy! ^_^

The morning after—well, technically more like afternoon—when you and Steve come shuffling into the common area, neither one of you is surprised to find everyone lounging around like they’ve been waiting for you.

As if on cue, Tony waggles his eyebrows at you and jerks his thumb at Steve.

“So, how was it? Like driving a Maserati, I bet, ri— _hey_ , OW.”

Natasha hits Tony smack in the face with one of her velvet smoking slippers.

Next to you, Steve is beet red and it takes a great deal of effort not to drag him back upstairs for a few more hours.

“You better watch your mouth, Stark,” you drawl lazily, side-eying Tony “That’s my best guy you’re talking about.”

There are several obnoxiously-loud _awww_ ’s from Sam, Darcy, Wanda, and Clint.

Thor stomps over wearing regular clothes and looking for all the world like a giant golden retriever, to beam at you and Steve. He claps you on the shoulder, and it kind of smarts.

“Friend Barnes! Steven Rogers! It pleases me deeply to know that you have abandoned your course of folly and finally joined in—”

“— _Thanks_ , I appreciate it, pal.” you rub the back of your neck, which has grown warm despite your decidedly cavalier attitude.

You knew it was going to be pretty bad, but when Natasha and Clint present you and Steve with a cake that says _IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME_ you realize you may have been _too_ optimistic.

That said, though, the cake is chocolate with three different layers of creme, and it _is_ pretty tasty.

 

The highlight is obviously when Tony almost chokes on a bite of cake when Steve says mildly, “It really was about time. Frankly, I was getting a little sick of the color blue—and I don’t mean my uniform.”

You almost spit out your own mouthful, because Jesus, give a guy a little warning. It’s worth it though to see the scandalized looks and hear the shocked laughter from everyone who heard Steve’s comment.

. .

Later, when you’re lying in a heap with Steve, sweaty and breathless, he remembers it and laughs and wonders aloud why everyone always seems to forget that he was in the army, for crying out loud, not the priesthood.

. .

Steve’s like a teenager—all handsy and love-dumb.

He presses you into corners and pulls you out of conversations to muscle you into supply closets and attack you with enthusiastic kisses.

He is a fast learner, eager to find every spot on your body that makes you clench your fingers into the sheets or cry out his name into the dark.

(That’s another thing: Steve won’t let you keep the lights off. His favorite time to take you apart is right after waking, when he’s still got that sweet sleepiness coming off him in waves.)

You want to do anything, everything with him.

You bite and lick and suck and lavish attention on any part of Steve you can get your hands on. You rub off on each other and use your mouths and tongues to bring each other over the edge again and again. You’re not in a hurry, either of you; there’s nothing to do with _Steve_ and _sex_ that you don’t want to try.

 . .

One afternoon, when Steve steps into the bedroom fresh from the shower, clad only in a towel and dripping water all over the floor, you know that you can’t wait anymore.

You heave yourself up and out of the bed, walking over to him and pulling the towel from his hips, lacing your fingers through his so you can guide him gently down onto the bed on his hands and knees.

You eat him out, sloppy and wet, until he’s whimpering and shaking with his face in the pillow, begging you to just give it to him already.

You yourself are painfully hard, and the thought of sliding into Steve makes you feel like you could come right now without even being touched.

Still, you keep at him with your mouth, pushing your tongue into him and teasing him with the tip of one finger. By the time you’re coating your fingers with the slick from the little black bottle in the bedside drawer, Steve is mottled pink all over and you think you might die if you don’t get inside him.

Lining yourself up, nudging at his hole with the blunt, thick head of your cock, you feel almost drunk with lust.

You ease into Steve, hissing at how hot and how tight and good he feels around you.

Steve is trembling under your hands, ass pressed flush against you now, and you start to move slowly.

He arches his back so you slide in even deeper, and you are in danger of losing all control.

You think that there might be words said, though you don’t know who is saying what or what is being said, and in barely any time, you’re reaching around to get your fingers around Steve’s erection, jerking him fast and with no finesse.

He comes with a muffled cry onto the sheets and your hand, and you follow almost immediately, biting down hard on the flesh of his shoulder and filling him with your release.

You pull out of him, and both flop down on the bed, breath coming in shallow pants.

Steve wriggles up so that he can press his face into the crook of your neck, and you feel tingly all over. You reach up to thread a hand through Steve’s hair, stroking at the short, sweat-damp strands at the back of his neck.

The two of you lay there for a few minutes or a few lifetimes; you’re not sure.

You think you could lie here forever with Steve naked in your arms.

You wonder what the old-you or the new, present-you ever did to deserve this.

“Steve?” You nudge him gently. He moans and burrows deeper into your shoulder.

Warmth floods your belly, and you think it probably always will when it comes to Steve.

“Stevie,” you murmur, lips curving into a dopey smile.

“Mmm?” he turns his head slightly and pulls back, eyes still closed.

“Stevie, we gotta shower. We’re all sticky,” you point out.

Steve groans, but with great effort manages to sit up in bed.

You want to tell him that you love him, it just wells up in you so big and so bright whenever you look at him, just as much as it always has.

You realize there’s nothing stopping you.

“Hey, Stevie,” you drawl, lazily grinning when he looks over his shoulder at you.

His face is a mirror for yours—only way dopier, you tell yourself—like he can’t believe any of this is real still.

“Race ya to the shower,” you spring up suddenly, elbowing him on your way past to get through the door.

When he’s pressing you up against the warm tile of the shower wall, both of you laughing and slippery under the shower spray, you tell him in three small words what he means to you.

. . .

 

EPILOGUE - ONE YEAR LATER  

 

Steve’s birthday was always a day you tried to make as special as you could, even when you were dirt poor and couldn’t afford to give him anything but promises.

This time, in this strange new future in which you can afford to buy him anything, you find you don’t have a single idea.

You are too stubborn to ask any of the others for suggestions, adamant that _you_ know Steve better than _they_ do.

You don’t need help.

(All it takes is one hour of pulling at your hair and scrolling desperately through products on Amazon, and you’re suddenly thinking what a good idea it would be to ask Sam or Natasha.)

Natasha pretends to think about it, frowning and tapping her chin.

“Have you given that USO costume idea any thought?” she asks with a smirk.

You glower at her while simultaneously biting into a bagel, and she just sits there all serene, slathering her scone with lemon curd.

When she offers to take you to some really tasteful lingerie shops for inspiration, you shove the rest of your bagel in your mouth and stomp away to find Sam.

 

Sam, at least, actually tries to be helpful.

“What about something sentimental? Just because you want it to be special, doesn’t mean it has to be something huge,” he points out.

“But, but, it’s _ha-a-a-rd_ ,” you groan, like you are ten and your mother has just told you to help her in the kitchen.

Why is this such an impossible task?

“Don’t overthink it, man,” Sam flashes a knowing smile. “The way I see it, you two being all cute and disgusting everywhere—don’t _think_ I forgot about the supply closet incident—but, seriously. Being with you is probably the thing Steve wished for on all his birthdays, you feel me?”

“Aw, are we really disgusting?” you pretend to be touched, hand on your heart “Thanks, Wilson. That really means a lot.”

You think about what Sam just said, though.

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“You really think he got his wish?”

“Do I really need to answer that dumbass question?” Sam rolls his eyes, sighing in a very put-upon manner. “Fine. Just to humor you. Steve looks at you with _all kinds_ of heart-eyes. I actually changed his name in my phone from ‘Wrong Size’ to ‘Heart-Eyes’. Okay?”

You feel warm all over when you think of the sappy, dreamy look Steve is sporting all the time nowadays, knowing that you helped put it there.

“Yeah, I—okay.” you turn to leave, but double back and ask “Why was he ‘Wrong-Size’ in your phone, though?”

Sam cackles and shows you a vine on his phone. You ask if Steve knows, and Sam shakes his head no, still giggling under his breath.

You get him to send you the link, then you thank him and hustle down to the gym for training with Wanda and Pietro.  

 . .

When you get to the gym, Darcy is there, too, claiming she’s ‘moral support’ for Pietro.

You just stare blandly at her until she caves and admits she’s only here to ogle Pietro.

You set the twins up to spar with training dummies and stand on the sidelines with Darcy.

“What’s got you so tense, Bucky-bear?” Darcy coos, taking in your frown and rigid shoulders.

You feel yourself crumple a little. “It’s Steve’s birthday in a week, and I have no goddamn clue what to get him,” you hear yourself whine.

Darcy’s full lips are a moue of sympathy. She puts a hand on your arm, and hums thoughtfully.

“What about something simple? Like breakfast in bed or a love letter or something.” T

he proverbial lightbulb goes on over your head. You know what you’re going to give Steve for his birthday.

You hug Darcy so hard that she squeaks.

“Beauty _and_ brains, you’re a helluva woman, Lewis,” you grin, suddenly in a better mood than you’ve been in all week.

“Stop putting cheap American moves on my Dasha!” Pietro calls from in the ring, laughing as he takes out two targets at once.

“Don’t worry, Potato, he could never come between us!” Darcy hollers back.

“’Potato _’_?” you smirk, and she shrugs.

“It’s the Darcy-version of a cute pet-name. It’s three syllables, kinda sounds like Pietro, right?”

“Huh.” You consider it “Yeah, I guess it kinda does. Hey, Potato, don’t let me catch you slacking on those arm blocking moves!”

. . .

On the night before Steve’s birthday, lying in bed while Steve reads a book, you start to get a little nervous.

What if your idea is stupid? What if it doesn’t turn out the way you want it to? What if—

“Don’t think too hard, you might hurt yourself,” Steve says in an amused voice.

“Quiet, Rogers. I’m havin’ a serious internal crisis right now, I don’t need any comments from the peanut gallery.”

“Nobody says that anymore, Buck.”

“I just did.”

“Well, nobody cool, I mean.” Steve is grinning like the little shit that he is, and suddenly you have the urge to pin him down with your mouth and your hips and just wipe that look right off his stupid face.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, you little punk,” You yank the paperback out of Steve’s hand and toss it across the room, ignoring his indignant cry of “ _Hey!_ That’s a library book!”

When you kiss him, though, he shuts up real nice, arching his hips up against your groin and moaning into your mouth.

You pull away so you can look down at him, in all his shirtless, marble-carved glory.

There is still a part of you that mourns for the small, scrawny Steve whom you first loved; a part of you that feels a twinge of well-worn regret that you hadn’t gotten your act together all those years ago. You know that you’d have taken care of him, gone slow and gentle and made him feel as beautiful as he was to you.

But that Steve is just living in a bigger house these days, and Bucky Barnes will take Steve Rogers no matter how the outer packaging might change.

You brush a thumb across one of Steve’s pretty pink nipples just to watch him squirm and whimper beneath you, his pale skin flushing from head to chest.

“ _Shhh_ , I got you Stevie. M’gonna take real good care of you,” you croon softly, dipping down to capture his lips again and roll your hips against him.

Steve makes another life-ruining noise and lets his legs fall open for you to nestle your body between them.

You think that you will never get enough of this, of him.

You try to freeze the image of Steve as he is right now, panting and flushed and beautiful; you want to remember him like this forever. His teeth dig into his lower lip, and you actually gasp at the picture he makes.

“ _Jesus_ ,” you breathe, mouth going a little dry. All those still-surprising muscles; all those familiar freckles.

Then, you are moving on top of him, touching him everywhere you can get your hands on. You want no space between his body and yours.

 

Later, when Steve comes with a strangled cry in thick, hot spurts with your hand stroking him and your cock inside of him, you have to close your eyes because the sight of him is too much to bear.

. . .

“Steve,” you nudge him, trying to wake him without startling him.

The big lug doesn’t budge, of course; his eyelashes flutter a little, but he just keeps on sleeping, breath coming in little puffs.

“ _Steve,_ ” you hiss, jamming your metal fingers into his ribs.

“ _Ow!_ What the fu—?” he tries to slap your hands away, sitting up in bed and rubbing at his eyes groggily. “What time is it, even?”

“Time for _you_ to get your lazy ass outta bed, Rogers. You’n me got plans for the day,” you swoop in for a quick kiss that Steve tries to deepen, though he’s still only half-awake.

“ _Stop_ pit! Would you just—there’s— _later_ , okay? Go get in the shower, and be quick about it.” you instruct, pointing to the bathroom door.

Steve grumbles something about _bossy_ and something else that sounds like _see if I kiss you again today_ , but he does get up and shuffle-stomp into the bathroom.

You grin when you hear the water running and Steve’s horribly off-key singing carrying through the wall.

. .

“So, aren’t ya gonna ask me where we’re going?” you glance sidelong at Steve, who is fiddling with his pen and trying to solve the crossword puzzle in his lap.

“I assumed you were kidnapping me to start our life together in Canada,” he responds absently, earning himself a flick on the ear.

“Shut it, birthday boy.”

. .

The two of you try not to stand out too much, but it’s kind of hard when the weather is too hot for jackets or even long sleeves.

Still, no one hassles you or anything, and you get to walk with Steve down the boardwalk at Coney Island with an arm slung loose over his shoulders.

“You gonna make me ride the Cyclone again, Buck?” he asks wryly, stopping to do a double-take when you pass a booth with terrifying giant stuffed Avengers as prizes.

“Nah,” you wave a hand “I think once was enough. Might make you ride the ferris wheel, though.”

 

The two of you get on the Wonder Wheel, climbing awkwardly into the enclosed car meant for six non-supersoldier sized people, sitting closer than is strictly necessary.

When the wheel comes around to the top, you tap Steve on the shoulder; he turns away from looking out the window to face you, and you plant a long, wet kiss to the sweet pink curve of his mouth.

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” you mumble against his lips.

. .

After Coney Island, you take Steve to a movie.

It’s a little run-down theater with only three screens, and today they’re showing a block of the movies made about Captain America.

Steve groans and protests, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased.

There is virtually no one there besides the employees, and the two of you sit in the middle of an almost-empty theater sharing the largest bag of popcorn and complaining about the historical inaccuracies in the film.

You hold his hand throughout the whole thing, stealing a kiss when the need gets to be too much.

Afterwards, you walk him out the back exit and into an alley, where you press him up against the brick wall and kiss him breathless.

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” you say, biting at his lip.

. .

By the third stop on your Steve Rogers-100th-Birthday-Tour-extravaganza, he’s starting to catch wise to what your whole theme is.

“Buck, didn’t I get beat up in this alley?”

“And how. Now shut up and let me give you a birthday kiss. For America.”

Steve gives a halfhearted protest, but does as he’s told, for once.

. .

The two of you stop for lunch in a diner that reminds you of the kind of place you would have gone before the war, when you’d scraped together enough cash between you and felt like living a little.

Steve orders a disturbing amount of food, but you just smile indulgently across the booth at him and tangle your feet together under the table.

The windows of the diner have been decorated for the holiday with faded crepe paper and little American flags on a string, and it’s obvious that people recognize Steve and, probably, you.

Nobody bothers you, though, and when the waitress comes back with your food, you lean across the table and peck Steve on the lips.

There’s a tall strawberry milkshake in a sweating glass in front of you, two straws stuck into the whipped cream.

“We goin’ dutch, or are you treatin’ me?” Steve looks like he wants to laugh, eyes all bright and feisty.

“Don’t insult me, Rogers. It’s your _birthday_ , for christ’s sake.” you nudge the glass full of pink frosty goodness towards him. “Now, drink it. I’m tryin’ to be romantic, here.”

Steve laughs and throws a french fry at you, but he lets you lick the whipped cream taste off his lips when no one is watching. 

. .

After the diner, you take him back to the Tower where everyone is waiting in the common area, which someone has decorated with an obnoxious amount of patriotic streamers and balloons.

“Happy centennial, Capsicle.” Tony claps Steve on the shoulder “I wanted to get a stripper to pop out of a cake for you, but Barnes refused to wear the outfit.”

Steve turns to you with his best disappointed-Captain America face.

“Aw, really, Buck?" he sounds sincerely crushed. "You coulda done it naked, I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Oh, that’s just _wrong_ ,” Tony covers his eyes and waves you both away.

Natasha sidles over holding a small package wrapped in plain brown paper, wearing a tank top with a graphic of Steve’s shield.

“Open it later,” she tells him, the ghost of a smirk on her red lips. “You don’t have to tell me about it, just promise that you’ll use it.”

Steve turns crimson and stammers for a full minute before dashing away to grab a beer and talk to Sam, who has on a blue t-shirt with a big white star on the chest.

Darcy is wearing a blue sundress that’s got detailing to look like Steve’s old USO costume and feeding strawberries to Pietro, who has on a backwards baseball cap and a tank top printed with stars-and-stripes.

“What’s with the outfits?” you ask, snatching a strawberry from her bowl and popping it into your mouth.

“It was Tony’s idea. He said he wanted to embarrass Steve, but _I_ think it’s just because he secretly wanted an excuse to wear the Captain America shirt he already had.”

“ _James!_ ” Wanda appears out of nowhere, throwing her arms around you like it’s been days since you last saw each other.

“Hey, _solnyshka_ ,” you say warmly, kissing the top of her head. “Whoa, _hey_ —look at you. I’m gonna have to start chasing the boys away from you like a grouchy old _Dyadya_.”

Wanda giggles, pulling out of your arms so she can do a little twirl.

She has her hair pulled into a messy braid, and the red and blue tie-dyed sundress she’s wearing flutters gently.

She’s come such a long way since you first met her—the sparkling, beautiful, confident young woman in front of you is a far cry from the frightened child she was just a year ago. You didn’t expect to get choked up, but, well—

“Where is the man of the hour?” Tony is standing on that damn footstool again, scanning the room for Steve, who is laughing over by the bar with Bruce and Clint.

Steve’s face looks so open and happy, your heart squeezes a little at the sight.

“Now, I know that today is Independence Day and yay, America, fireworks, Benjamin Franklin, _yada yada yada_ — _but,_ more importantly, fellow Avengers and associates, today is the day our beloved Cap-o-saurus turns the big 1-0-0.”

Everyone in the room cheers or whistles, and Steve ducks his head to hide his grin.

“The last few birthdays he’s had—well, the ones after the defrost process—passed with little fanfare and that’s just not right.” Stark is posing with his hands on his hips, looking off at some fixed point in the distance.

“ _Get on with it, Tin-Can!_ ” Clint shouts, throwing an empty beer can at Stark.

“No fighting on Steve’s birthday! That’s probably, like, a federal offense!” interjects Sam from over by the bar.

“Settle down, people, I’m almost done,” Tony raises his hands. “All I was going to say was that Steve Rogers is a national treasure, and that I’ve prepared a little video in his honor.”

Everyone pretends to groan, but the projector screen comes down from the ceiling and the lights dim and you make your way over to Steve, whose face is a mix of fond and annoyed.

The video turns out to be nothing like either of you expected though, and you feel for possibly the thousandth time that you have, once again, misjudged Tony Stark.

The video begins with a few clips of Steve looking serious at best and totally miserable at worst. You realize it must be JARVIS’s surveillance footage, and you watch and listen as the Steve on the screen talks in a tight, hollow voice that you don’t recognize at all.

There’s a clip of a fight between Steve and Tony in what looks like Tony’s lab at SHIELD, and your fists clench so tight that you crush the can of beer in your hand when you hear the screen-Tony utter the words  _“Everything special about you came out of a bottle.”_

You’re about two seconds from punching Stark in the face, but then the video is just Tony sitting in his lab, staring straight at the camera and speaking.

Screen-Tony says: _“Steve, you know me. You know me well enough to know that over the years I have said a bazillion things that I should feel like a real asshole about. And, believe me, buddy, I_ do _. But I’ve never regretted anything I said more than what I said in that lab about you._ Captain America _is the legend, sure, he gets to wear the outfit and make the speeches and carry the star-spangled burden—but_ Steve Rogers _, that’s the guy who lays down on the wire so the others can walk across. I was, I was_ wrong _, yes, you heard it right, folks, Tony Stark is admitting error—but Steve, you’re the heart, buddy. You’re too good for us, even if you do dress your actual age and your taste in modern music is questionable at best. So, well, yeah. Happy birthday, Cap.”_

You sneak a glance at Steve, who looks like he’s doing his damnedest not to cry.

His eyes are bright, though, even in the semidarkness, and his nose is a little pink.

The film keeps rolling, though, this time with a fresh-faced Natasha, sitting in one of the chairs on her balcony in the warm sunlight.

 _“Steve,”_ Natasha’s husky voice comes through over the video _“Once, I told you that you might be in the wrong business. I still think so, sometimes,”_ she laughs a little _“You’re a terrible liar. I’ve since changed my opinion of what that means, though. You’ve been a friend to me when I was lying to you seven different ways, and you never once judged me for things that I did or choices that I made. You somehow manage to be utterly polite and old-fashioned while also treating me like an equal and not just a pretty girl in a tight outfit. My only issue with you is that you let me keep trying to set you up with all those women! Seriously, Steve, of all the secrets to keep,”_ screen-Natasha rolls her eyes and the real Natasha smirks. _“But you’re an anomaly, Rogers. A good man fighting the good fight. I hope you take this for what it is when I tell you to never, ever change. Happy birthday, Steve.”_

Next is Bruce, who is sitting in his tranquility room in a lotus position, the camera propped up on a table to get him in frame.

_“Steve, when I first met you, you introduced yourself to me and complimented me on my intelligence. You made it clear that you weren’t interested in the, uh, Other Guy. That—that meant a lot to me, and, it was something I really needed to hear. So, thanks. And thanks for all times you’ve sat in comfortable silence with me—no offense, Tony, but sometimes silences are a good thing—I grew up with Captain America as a cartoon and as a hero, but I have to agree with Tony—between the legend and the real guy? There’s no contest. Happy birthday, Steve.”_

You move to stand a little closer so you can put your arm around Steve, who is now really trying not to get choked up.

Sam’s grinning face appears on the screen next, wearing a sweat-soaked shirt and leaning against a tree in a park.

 _“On your left,”_ Sam in the video says, laughing. _“That was the first thing you said to me, and I swear to god, Steve, I wanted to kick your ass, living legend or not.”_ he shakes his head, still smiling. _“About how the idea I had of you and the real you who I consider my white bread brother measure against each other, I can’t say much that the others haven't already said. What I can say is this: Buy some shirts in a larger size. Stop mauling Barnes in communal areas of the tower. Watch that hilarious History Channel special about your friendship with Barnes. Start painting. Go on a road trip. And for God’s sakes, Rogers, do a damn triathlon for charity or_ something _. But seriously, though. Happy birthday to the only 100 year old veteran who can still rock spandex.”_

Steve has one hand covering his mouth, and his shoulders are trembling almost imperceptibly.

You give his hip a squeeze where your hand is resting on it.

After Sam, there’s a clip of Clint, and then one of Darcy (with pop-up appearances by the twins), _and_ one of Coulson and Hill at SHIELD, and then finally, the screen fades to black to the familiarly jaunty tune of _the Star-Spangled Man With a Plan_.

The lights come back up, and Steve is laughing and wiping at his eyes and telling everyone not to look at him.

“Oh, now you went and did it,” Sam points his finger accusingly at Tony. “You made _Captain America_ cry. On his birthday. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“He—I—it’s okay, I’m fine,” Steve manages to say steadily, though his voice sounds a little rough. “ _Seriously_ , you guys didn’t—”

“Yes, we did, Steve. There’s just something about you that makes us all want to be less shitty,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Just accept it.”

Steve looks totally overwhelmed, and you aren't surprised; all that good he’s willing to believe in other people, Steve has never quite been able to see in himself.

You clear your throat so everyone can hear you. “Hey, gang, that was—that was really something. And I know you want Steve to open your doubtlessly terrible gifts, but I think he could use some air right now, okay? We’re just gonna go take a little walk, be back in twenty.”

You shepherd Steve through the room and into the elevator, throwing a genuine smile over your shoulder to everyone.

You hit the button for the roof and take Steve’s hand in yours.

. .

It’s dark out, and the city has begun lighting fireworks that blaze brightly against the purple-black sky, and then fade out.

Steve is a little red around the eyes, and you push him down onto the wicker love-seat and kiss him quickly on the lips, turning then to dig around in the backpack you strategically planted up here early in the morning.

“I don’t think I can handle anymore presents, Buck.” Steve jokes weakly, but you just shush him and pass over the plain glass bottle you pull from the bag.

“It’s not exactly my Pop’s old hooch, but Thor says this stuff’ll knock a frost giant on his ass, whatever the hell that means. I figure maybe you can at least get a little buzz,” you shrug, then look out over the wall at the fireworks fizzling and popping across the night sky.

“Bucky,” Steve says, and his voice tells you that he gets it now.

“Stevie,” you sigh, tipping your head back as a gentle breeze blows over you.

Steve uncorks the bottle and takes a tentative sniff, nose making him look more like a rabbit than ever. Then, he makes a face that you know means _‘well, I guess’_ , and takes a big swig—

—and nearly spits it out all over the both of you.

“ _Ack!_ ” he gasps, after he’s swallowed. “What _is_ this stuff, floor cleaner?”

You grab the bottle from his hand and lift it to your own lips. The liquid burns more than the strongest stuff you’ve had, and it tastes like bitter, burnt honey.

“Yikes. Those Asgardians don’t fuck around,” you grimace, taking another pull and passing the bottle back. “I think I’m about to get very, very drunk.”

Steve sips at the liquor again, still making a face.

“You know, I tried to find the building I used to live in.” you say after a moment’s silence. “It was knocked down years ago, no big surprise there.”

Steve is looking at you now, cheeks slightly pink from the alcohol, and you know that it’s actually hitting him.

“I remember that night, Stevie,” you continue, tracing patterns on the knee of Steve’s jeans, “I remember how much I— _Christ_ , Steve, I was outta my head for wantin’ to kiss you so bad.”

Steve blinks prettily, lips parting in that same little ‘O’ of surprise that he’d worn all those years ago.

“I’ll never forgive myself for being such a coward,” you laugh, and it feels bittersweet. “But I thought that today I would take you to some of the places that I remember—places that I can remember wanting to kiss you, but that I never did on account of me being such a moron.”

Steve is looking at you in that way he does that makes you feel warm and squirmy, having all that pure, glowing love pointed straight at you like that.

You reach out, still a little unsure in your movements, to cup Steve’s cheek and brush your thumb over his square jaw.

“I wanted to kiss you on the ferris wheel nearly every damn time we rode the stupid thing,” you tell him. “I wanted to kiss you at the pictures and take you out on dates like I did with dames, and god help me, I wanted to kiss you even when I found you with two black eyes in an alley, spittin’ mad and five foot nothing.”

Steve leans into your touch, closes his eyes like it feels too good.

“I brought you up here because—well, _yeah_ , because you needed a minute after that sappy video—but also because,” you struggle to find the right words “Because I wanted you to know that the way I feel about you, Stevie, it ain’t new.”

Steve looks like you just gave him everything he ever wanted.

The kiss he drags you in for is so fierce and scorching, that the two of you don’t end up making it back down to the party for closer to an hour.

. .

Tony gives Steve a box of things Steve had thought were lost to the passage of time, but that had turned out to have been purchased by some wealthy collector. Tony had found the guy and made him an offer so ridiculous, that the poor schmuck couldn’t refuse without looking like the worst kind of idiot.

(Inside are some of Steve’s old sketchbooks, a few books, and—to your horror—a bundle of letters that you wrote when you were at bootcamp.)

Sam’s gift is a pair of tickets to a big gallery opening at the Met, which he tells Steve very adamantly not to bring him to. Steve grins but makes no promises.

Bruce gives Steve some kind of super strength muscle pain relief cream that he created specially in the lab to work with Steve’s physiology. He waves off any attempts Steve makes to genuinely thank him.

Clint’s present is a bunch of motorcycle maintenance stuff along with a big map of the whole U.S. that he’s circled and marked all over, made little notes and drawn pictures at different points.

“A little bird told me that you wanted to go out and see America. I’ve seen a lot, figured you might want some good intel.” he says, looking away like he’s afraid of being caught doing something nice.

Thor’s gift—aside from the booze that can actually get Steve tipsy—is some kind of weird, multicolored ink from Asgard that shimmers and shifts colors even on the page like spilled oil. Steve seems almost childishly excited to try it out, and Thor claps him on the back so hard, he almost drops the little crystal bottle.

Darcy and the twins hand over a brightly-wrapped package covered in a multitude of loud, ugly bows. Inside is an actual Bucky Bear—not a reissue, but one from the original batch.

Steve grins mischievously and you pout and tell Darcy she’s not your best girl anymore, but you give up the act when she and the twins give you a big, squishy hug.

 

The night ends with everyone on the roof watching the fireworks, cracking old man-jokes to Steve and telling every embarrassing Steve story they have.

When the two of you stagger into your apartment and collapse in a heap on the bed, the last thing you think is simply _home_.

. . .

You are James Buchanan Barnes, and you are both 101 and 28 years old.

You live in a hideous eyesore of a building with a bunch of people who make their living saving the world and spend their downtime thinking up new and horrible ways to amuse themselves.

You are not perfect, not free of cracks and flaws by any means; some days you still have to fight with your nightmares to get out of bed.

Sometimes you don’t get out of bed at all.

But, you are happy.

You have friends ( _and_ Tony, who you refuse to admit is amongst that number, no matter how true it may be) and you have hobbies and, best of all, you have _Steve_.

Little Steve Rogers who isn’t so little anymore, who’s driving the motorcycle you’re on the back of, whose waist your arms are wrapped tightly around as the bike speeds down the interstate.

You have a collection of sci-fi novels that takes up two whole bookshelves back at your and Steve’s apartment, and you have a phone in your pocket that the sci-fi books from when you were a kid couldn’t have even hoped to dream up.

There are still people who say you should be in prison for what you did when you weren’t you—worse, there are people who say you’re like a dog who should be put down—but that doesn’t get to you, most days.

There’s a boy with blue eyes and freckles and sunny gold hair who looks at you and sees all your scars and your shadows and your metal arm and he still smiles at you like _he_ can’t believe _his_ luck.

(Right now, you’re heading out West, no destination in mind. Turns out, even Captain America gets a little vacation time.)

 

At the next rest stop, you sneakily take a picture with your phone of Steve when he turns to look out at the piney hills up the road, and then send it to everyone with the message

_why does steve always look so dramatic when he looks out into the distance???_

When he comes back over to where you are, he kisses you and asks what’s so funny.

You bite the inside of your cheek and decide to tell him later.

Maybe.

 

END

 

 

**Steve and Bucky and everybody else will return in the huge collection of extended drabbles I’m already working on set in this same ‘verse. Also, I’m starting a story from Steve’s side of things as well. Thank you all.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sips wine and stares out at sunset* 
> 
>  
> 
> You are all the best. Stay tuned for further adventures ^_~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ^_^


End file.
